Mobile Manifesto coming soon

Taking a camera for a walk

Concrete

Further to my mission as Vilnius’ unofficial cultural and historical flaneur, today I explored a couple of other sights in the city to help (hopefully) bring about more concrete ideas about the Borders project. In fact, concrete was the very word today. Vilnius’ magnificent (or is it grotesque?) and crumbling Palace of Concerts and Sports (Koncertų ir Sporto Rūmai) is an extraordinary piece of Soviet Brutalist architecture, and a particularly poignant symbol of Lithuanian dominance of the region and its attempts at destroying everything racially different that went before it. Built in 1971, the Palace of Concerts and Sports occupies a large section of the city’s former Jewish Cemetery (see previous posts for more on the subject), which opened way back in 1487 and was closed some time in the middle of the 19th century, about 100 years before it was desecrated in the name of Socialism. The building also holds the honour of being the venue for the infamous Sąjūdis Conference, when the Lithuanian version of Solidarity among other things reintroduced the non-Soviet Lithuanian flag and gave the Cathedral back to the Roman Catholic Church. Interestingly, especially as the event was exactly 20 years ago (Sąjūdis I should mention were one of the major forces in helping destroy the USSR), no monument stands to mark the event. I did notice however that a new(ish) monument to the Jewish cemetery has been placed outside. Further along the Neris river to the northeast is the site of the soon-to-open Tuskulėnų Rimties Parkas (Tuskulėnai Peace Park)built on the grounds of the 19th-century Tuskulėnų Dvaras (Tuskulėnai Manor) which was taken over by the KGB at the end of WWII and in whose grounds the bodies of 766 Lithuanian victims of the Soviets were found a few years ago. The site is being turned into yet another symbol of Lithuanian suffering at the hands of the Soviets, which, especially when you remember that the Lithuanians and Soviets made a deal over Vilnius in 1944 that effectively cleansed the city of its majority Polish population (among them the photographer Jan Bułhak - see earlier post), does look rather stupid. It’s precisely this ridiculous version of Lithuanian history that’s inspiring me to work on a project that addresses something a little more along the lines of the truth. Anyway, I’m not here to hold a grudge or to get too involved emotionally, I’m merely interested in how the city really grew. I’m starting to see the project as it’s going to be. More of that later.

The flaneur

Yesterday I went and had a look at the kenesa in Vilnius, one of (allegedly) only three surviving active ones left on the planet. A kenesa is the religious building of the karaite, a peculiar sect of Judaism who were believed to have broken away from Rabbinic Judaism in the mists of time in Baghdad. The karaite were bought to Lithuania by the Lithuanian Grand Duke Vytautas (Polish, Witold, 1350-1430) as bodyguards and who still remain in small numbers, notably in the old Lithuanian capital at Trakai (Polish, Troki). Resplendent in their pointy boots and Oriental attire, the karaite represent much that has more or less vanished (or been removed) from the cultural makeup of Lithuania. They’re mentioned in the City of Strangers book, briefly, as are the Tartars, who once had a large community in Vilnius in what’s now known as the Lukiškės area of the city. Incidentally, this explains the Islamic graves I found in Vilnius (see earlier post). The book is doing an extraordinary job at recreating the recent past of this city, and is both helping and muddying my quest. The book is really a history of the city as told by outsiders who visited over the centuries, some of them famous authors, others more humble visitors. I’ve just been reading about Paul Otto Heinrich Fechter (1880-1958), a German submarine pilot during WWI and, under the pseudonym Paul Monty the author of a guidebook to Vilnius during the German occupation of the city from 1915 to 1918. Wanderstunden in Wilna (Wandering in Vilnius) speaks volumes about the way I feel not just about Vilnius but about my own fascination with cities. I’ve called myself an urban rambler for a long time, and I suppose it’s this obsession (or partly this obsession) that drove me into my current line of business. Paul Monty’s book is written for occupying German soldiers, and appeals directly to the flaneur, which is another word for urban rambler I suppose. Anyway, get from the book:

In this world, the right to conquer foreign cities in a privilege reserved only to a few mighty rulers and military leaders, but every traveller can successfully master unknown cities if he perfects the art of wandering. If the traveller is a clever strategist, he will certainly consult various maps and chronicles before he ventures into a strange town. If the traveller is an artist - and wandering is the freest form of art - he will approach the city from a completely different perspective. Without any hesitation, the urban wanderer will let fresh air guide him through the unfamiliar streets of the far-flung city. This form of travelling has the potential of breaking every kind of fortification. Fortunately for the traveller, our good old Wilna is blessed with a perpetual breeze, creating perfect conditions for endless roaming through its streets and squares.

It’s almost as if this was written for me.

Thinking

Border expansion

Slowly ploughing through the City of Strangers book, which despite containing a number of minor factual errors is the best thing I ever read about Vilnius. Consequently, and for reasons I’ll go into later, I’m now thinking about spreading the ‘borders’ of the project to outside the confines of the old city walls, including the whole of Vilnius as the subject. I need to think about this in more detail, but so far it makes sense. I really like the way my ideas chop and change. Anyway, today I briefly the Dawn Gate (Aušros Vartai), the single remaining gate of the five originally built into the city walls at the start of the 16th century. It contains a small chapel with a likeness of the Virgin Mary inside and is considered to have magical powers. Almost everybody who walks through the gates will glance up at the Madonna (turning round first if they’re walking into Old Town) and cross themselves. Some will go on their knees, and some will stay down for a long time. I took a few snaps (above) to get some ideas about how I could do a postcard about it, and am still thinking. Whatever, it’s one of the most important places in the city, regardless of one’s opinion about religion. I then took a number of bus journeys (above) in a fruitless attempt to find a jar of peanut butter. It seems there’s none left in the country. I like the people I find on buses and in the markets. Visually I believe the city deserves more than just what I can achieve in Old Town. Time to start talking to people about this in more detail. I’m starting to drown in my thoughts.

100 Strangers

Another interesting use for Flickr, here.