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| The Body and Soul of Textile Art Iliana Veinberga, Art Critic A conversation with the artist Edīte Pauls-Vīgnere | |
 Edīte Pauls-Vīgnere. Photo from Edīte Pauls-Vīgnere's private archive | |
| As the year 2009 was coming to a close, the Museum of Decorative Art and Design as well as the Cēsis House of Exhibitions held solo exhibitions by Edīte Pauls-Vīgnere, the Latvian textile artist. In Cēsis, it was her large scale retrospective Tekstīlijas (‘Textiles’), but in the capital city – her latest works entitled Ak, sievietes! ...no volāniem līdz volāniem... (‘Oh Women!...from Flounces to Flounces...’). The exhibitions and the works displayed confirmed once again that Edīte Pauls-Vīgnere is a brilliant artist, whose works – in a historical perspective – have been placed into the category of textile art. I would dare, however, from a time perspective to rank the ideas, influence and the artist’s creative personality as part of undeniably authentic, contemporary art that, as it seems, withstands all tests of time. Woman. Women Iliana Veinberga: Never before in your works have there been so many and diverse female images; also eroticism and sexuality are more pronounced than before. Why this shift in accents? Why exactly women? Edīte Pauls-Vīgnere: A woman’s image is largely gratifying due to being related to “external packaging”. My first profession and all of my creative life have been linked with material, and I have always enjoyed watching the process of a woman’s transformation when her character can be altered by changing her appearance. The Soviet era was tragic in this respect, as a great number of men had perished in the war and women attempted to cope with everything all by themselves, under immense strain. I’m not thinking about feminism, but what greatly saddened me was that women were like run-down workhorses. The artistic community was different because it was united in its Bohemian lifestyle. I liked that women, for instance Večella Varslavāne and Maija Tabaka, ventured to develop their own unique image. Because during the Soviet era, everybody looked alike, and if anything was different it provoked aggression and hatred in others. I remember – the first coat I made was a floor-length one, and the woman street sweeper, when she saw me in the street, stopped and started yelling at me: how dared I wear anything like that! It was a very difficult time for the Soviet woman. Now it’s unimaginable that anything like that could ever happen. Some works contain a political aspect and the changes of position taking place in the relations between man and woman in contemporary society. These, however, are the exception. The rest of the works are more about that which is unique in women. To be able to portray this is a difficult challenge for a woman artist. | |
 Edīte Pauls-Vīgnere. Woman and the Moon. Fragment. Mixed technique. 153x158cm. 2008. Photo: Iliana Veinberga | |
| For instance, in the works Sieviete un mēness (‘Woman and the Moon’) I was primarily interested in the spirituality preserved by a woman if depicted in an erotic manner. In historical settings, the background decor, a detail of clothing or a bodily curve by which a woman discloses herself allows to imbue all that with meaning. The pornography of late-night television, on the contrary, sometimes may be infuriating with the way it uses and humiliates a woman! Thus those were three things that fascinated me: beautiful, pure eroticism, the Moon or a woman’s attitude towards the Moon and the mythology and rites associated with it – admiration, mystery, warning – and gold, as for me the Moon’s changing tones associate with golden hues, allowing me then as an artist to play with material. My works are not private, they sooner stem from the profession, when a composition is construed for an idea in your mind and everything falls in place all by itself while working. A woman’s image is inexhaustible. The Academy and the Golden Age I.V.: Why textile art? What was the journey like and how did you feel about success? E. P.-V.: I was never made do things, unlike my brother (composer and musician Raimonds Pauls – I. V.) whom my Father forced to play the piano. It was considered that for a girl secondary school is enough. But I had heard somewhere that there is a school such as “the applieds” (Riga Secondary School of Applied Art, now Riga Secondary School of Design and Art – I. V.), and I enrolled in the fashion designer department. While there, I fell in love with the atmosphere at the Academy of Art and thought over the possibility of entering it. Nobody made me do that either, they even tried to talk me out of it, saying “you’ve got an occupation, what else do you need?” By coincidence, after the applieds I was sent to work at the House of Models. In those days that was considered to be extremely lucky. But it didn’t grab me – I couldn’t get along with the collective: the Slavic atmosphere, capricious models; I couldn’t stand being directed, not being able to make my own decisions about my work. So when I learned that the Academy of Art is setting up a textile art department, I didn’t hesitate and applied. It is true, everything was just being developed, there wasn’t a study programme in place, neither was there any knowledge or experience, and I soon realized I did not need this and wanted to work independently. But there was one thing, however, and it cannot be underestimated: the fascinating personality of Rūdolfs Heimrāts, head of the department. He had already won popularity in Latvia, had graduated from the ceramics department and his wife was also a ceramist. They liked him in Moscow –the Russian functionaries did not address him “Comrade Heimrāts”, but just “Rūdis”, commissioned orders, concluded contracts, sent him on creative missions to France, Japan, etc. He had earned these favours by sheer force of personality, not through loyal services to the regime. He was not only a genius of textile art, but also a superb educator. Unlike the director of the applieds, Imants Žūriņš, who being influenced by Scandinavian design promoted the importance of ensemble, Heimrāts advocated the autonomous creative personality. He never interfered with a student’s creative processes, and as a result many strong new artists emerged. There was even a period when textile students set the style at the Academy – Pauļuks rebuked the painters and said that they should go and learn from the textile artists (laughs). Rūdolfs Heimrāts created the golden age of Latvian textile art. We, his students, were totally ecstatic and competed with each other. The first textile art shows were brilliant, drew audiences, were noticed. Textile art developed very fast, and we passed at great speed through all the three stages: flat surface works on the wall, then spatial works in three dimensions, and the last – when one can enter a work; we engaged the surrounding exhibition space and textile was now bordering on sculpture, or installation as it is called these days. Heimrāts was most upset if any young person abandoned art. He got angry when girls became pregnant, because then they would marry and in many cases left the artistic world. I started expecting a child in my second year, but I stayed. Truly, even until my fourth year I was sure that I would design textile patterns and paint. Heimrāts, however, forwarded one Moscow contract to me, and I wove the tapestry Koncerts (‘Concert’). For a young artist to work and to be paid for it was something impossible to describe, I was thrilled! After graduating from the Academy and the first commissions, I worked like mad, weaving non-stop, and so the textile thing took off. | |
 Edīte Pauls-Vīgnere. Woman and the Moon. Fragment. Mixed technique. 153x158cm. 2008. Photo: Iliana Veinberga | |
| Freedom within I.V.: There are stories about artists whose life or career was ruined or crippled during the Soviet times. Your creative development and public emergence, it seems, was and is progressing smoothly. How did you achieve that? E.P.-V.: As I already mentioned, Heimrāts had very good relations with the people in Moscow. Unlike painters, among whom perhaps there was more mutual envy, Heimrāts took care of his pupils and stood up for them. For me, too, he arranged commissions, although I failed to exploit the situation to my advantage, I was not a business person in that respect. There was a place to work, water, light and warmth, and that was enough; it was the process that mattered, an opportunity to work unhindered. It was bliss – to touch the warp on the loom as if playing the harp; I put through a thread, it fits, glides, pulls taut and settles in. Whilst working on one item I was thinking about the next one, and the orders came pouring in. I did not even have to hand in sketches beforehand, like others did, nothing! I held my first solo exhibition on both floors of the Museum of Foreign Art, ten years after leaving the Academy. I plucked up my courage as quite a few works had piled up during this time. I invited the photographer Jānis Kreicbergs to make large scale photographs of the work process, so that the audience would see how hard it was: we had to do everything by ourselves, yarn had to be dyed, and so forth. I also invited the interior designer Jānis Pipurs to close up all the windows and to install spotlights and special lighting, because I really don’t like light-filled rooms – it is the shadowiness and a mysterious mood that are important for the works to start living a life of their own. One of the most impressive works was Visums (‘The Universe’), consisting of several elements displayed in the room: there was the tapestry Zilgme (‘The Blueness’) and on the floor Zeme (‘The Earth’) made in my own individual technique, between the two was hanging a rotating shirt with woven floral motifs on both sides. In addition, there was a vase with Judas’ pieces of silver, because at that time I had taken fancy to symbolism, and it seemed that these were necessary. A part of the floor was also supposed to rotate in a meditative mood and the lighting was meant to throw light from the sides at floor level, so that during movement shadows would play on the surface. I loved three dimensional works with a touch of scenography, because textile art should be different from painting, its special substantiality, spatiality and plasticity should be felt. The success of the exhibition was mind-boggling: in winter, people lined up in the street to get in and see the display; I received flowers that I didn’t know were even available in Soviet Latvia. I have done many crazy things since then. For instance, the Director of Riga History and Navigation Museum Klāra Radziņa offered to hold an exhibition there –ironically, to hide the defects on freshly restored walls. I agreed, on the condition that I would be able to use museum exhibits in the arrangement of the exposition. The result was fascinating, we selected objects for each textile to play with in space, covering the whole exhibition room and interrelating with the museum’s permanent display. In parallel with art, I threw myself into interior decorating assignments with great enthusiasm. In those days it was a patching up of sorts – we, artists, had to disguise architects’ errors and defects left behind by builders. On the other hand, it was an opportunity for an artist to survive and to create amazing artefacts, and I loved commissions because this required working for a specific place, to introduce my art into a specific space, to manipulate the ambiance. That was always a challenge. For example, one of the most successful interiors was in the famous Jūras Pērle (‘Sea Pearl’) restaurant, where I designed spatial textiles for four windows, and each window had its own searelated theme. For the first time I managed to achieve that in a public place the light shines on the textile work from below, and as the items included 3D details and elements, the effect was truly dramatic and original. Unfortunately this cannot be seen in photographs that well, neither has the interior survived. The interior of the Daugava Hotel (present day Radisson SAS Daugava), where I had to decorate the bar, also has not been preserved. When Ojārs Ābols invited me, he said that the place will display high standard Italian design, but when I got there with my works the furniture was just being assembled, the walls had to be repainted, Džemma [Skulme] was working on a mural –girls in national dress in grey shades – and all these things just clashed so much with each other. I was unhappy, we even quarrelled. The captivity beyond I.V.: How did you get on with other textile artists, what contacts did you have with satellite countries and authors there? Were you lucky enough to have the chance to display your works in the West? E.P.-V.: Relations with artists in the Soviet Union and in the satellite countries were good, we all were passionate about what we were doing; we worked, maintained contacts, exchanged information. It was difficult to do a solo exhibition, that was a heavy financial burden, but there were numerous joint shows. Poland set the tone in Eastern Europe, but Latvia and the Baltic states set the trend for the Soviet Union, because the Baltic artists arranged their exhibitions in a freer and more avantgarde manner than the others. In textile art, our school had numerous followers, even Azerbaijanis and Georgians came to learn from us. One of my best exhibitions, in my own estimation, took place in Czechoslovakia, in a castle 100km from Prague, where during the USSR period a world tapestry art centre with restoration workshops was set up, and where all the greats – Sheila Hicks, Jagoda Bujić and others – had displayed their works. I, too, had three exhibitions there. I had occupied almost the entire castle with my works. It is a shame that nobody came from the Riga Film Studio to immortalize it all. A very talented Czech film director, a devotee of Bergman and Tarkovsky, saw the third and last exhibition which toured from Prague to Bratislava, and wanted to shoot a film about my works. Unfortunately, he was not allowed into Soviet Russia. The scenario of the film in Russian was kept, I think, by Tatjana Suta, and the one I have is only in Czech. Soon after, the man committed suicide. But I was able to travel to “real” foreign countries for the first time only when I was thirty five. Two days in Cuba, two in Paris and two more in Morocco. I had really wanted to travel to Cuba. I went to the Party Committee meeting, and they did not let me go, and asked who was supposed to look after my baby and other idiotic questions; when I left the room I was crying my eyes out. Then I had a stroke of fortune – the then Rector of the Academy of Art, Valdis Dišlers, helped me to arrange the trip. When I returned from Cuba I was ecstatic. My suitcase was full of pine cones, shells, pebbles, and I felt as if I’d fallen from another planet! You should have seen my excitement when I was telling others about the trip! Look, that’s a Soviet citizen for you, one who has been locked up in a barrel. From the impressions of the trip I created Ceļojuma piezīmes (‘Travel Notes’), a work that was awarded second prize in Łódź. New times I.V.: It must be recognised that you are one of the few textile artists whose name is writ large and is known beyond textile art circles. Very many young people admire your work. It is clear, however, that the 1990s was a time of rapid change and all kinds of difficulties. How did you survive this? E.P.-V.: The restoration of independence has proved to be a difficult period for Latvian textile art. The shortage of resources denies opportunities for creating serious works and to exhibit them seriously. It is pleasant that ad hoc works were and are being bought, but that does not take the profession forward. Art was transformed in the way that volumes were dramatically reduced, artists went over to easier techniques – individual techniques which do not possess material longevity, but are enjoyable with their smart and witty solutions. To be honest, this period is still continuing, once more we have been thrown back to the borderline that is called enthusiasm. Yet human fantasy is unrestricted, inexhaustible, and that is why I am currently working the way that, it seems to me, nobody else does. On the global scale there are, of course, the so called patchworks or textile collages, but I try not to limit myself to two dimensions, because it is important for me that a textile preserves its plastic qualities, that it moves and penetrates the ambient space. I myself call my works theatrical textiles. I stage direct the starting point, but then let everything work on its own and play along with it. In textile art it is important to invest one’s emotional experience, to bring it about in others – without it, there is nothing but technological capacity and the purity of technique, which these days is better achieved by machines than by human hands. Whatever the times, I return to themes which are near and dear to me. For instance, there are works – unfulfilled dreams. In my youth, I dreamed of going to Spain because they had flamenco. I made the work entitled Korrida (‘Corrida’), although I have never been to Spain. There have been so many unfulfilled desires and dreams – and works. Nature has always influenced me greatly. This is a subject I’ve used most often of all. Childhood experiences, too, have left behind an inexhaustible resource. I live on things from the past. On memories. I no longer need to experience anything physically, everything is inside me, I close my eyes and everything comes to life. For this reason perhaps it is difficult for me to say if greater freedom in the past would have left a significant impact on my art. I was never short of ideas, especially now, when there is less and less time remaining, and it is running out. Maybe this is my last act, so why waste it on things of minor importance? /Translator into English: Sarmīte Lietuviete/ | |
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