The approach of spring is associated with tidying up the house and throwing out useless clutter, but why couldn't this also be a reason to tidy up one's views? One such slightly dusty topic, rarely raised in reflection and which could be clarified, is the question of demolishing or preserving the Soviet-era architecture of Riga. As I began to think about this subject, I discovered that I do not seem to have a definite opinion on Soviet architecture – yet surely a person ought to have some ideas about things, especially if their gaze does not slide over them indifferently but instead looks upon them with understanding or, causing dissatisfaction and irritation, turns away in bewilderment. And it is Riga's buildings that trigger a feeling of benevolent understanding or – quite the opposite – difficult-to-restrain anger, sometimes even more so than the words spoken by people. The phrase “Soviet architecture” brings childhood to mind. I lived in the centre of Riga, and names come to mind – “Bērnu pasaule”, “Rīgas modes”, the hotel “Latvija”, the “Spartaks” cinema (I believe that was the name once given to the raised extension that blocks the magnificent facade of the “Rīga” cinema). At one time, the skewed Soviet economy was able to preserve wooden buildings in the city centre while in a state of slow decay. Then an article in the Swedish press, claiming that nothing much had changed in Riga during the Soviet era, forced the city authorities to urgently rid at least the then-Lenin Street of wooden buildings. (The famous “Flora” was one of the two-storey wooden houses, squeezed between the firewalls of the neighbouring five-storey buildings near the intersection of Lenin and Dzirnavu streets, which survived this wave of cleansing, but the next – the so-called period of “market economy” or “wild capitalism” – swept that away too.) However, a few wooden buildings have survived in the centre of Riga, and that is a unique feature of the city. I wonder what would have happened if the Soviet era had lasted longer – so that the mentioned and other examples of Soviet architecture could gain the historical value bestowed by a longer distance in time – would my attitude towards these buildings be different then? I remember – it must have been in 1983 or 1984, when I was studying architecture at the then-Riga Polytechnic Institute – how I was surprised by the care, not to say love, with which Professor Valeskalne delivered her lectures on 1930s Moscow architecture, which I simply loathed at the time. Perhaps it is also time for us to look at the Soviet architectural heritage with the eyes of an interested historian? Even though belonging to a personal experience does not grant things greater objective value and memories can preserve a negative attitude towards them, it is possible that memory can also weaken or even transform that attitude. This could be a matter of nostalgia – a question of what role the nostalgia triggered by houses built during the Soviet era plays in the meanings of the city. Is nostalgia a sufficient basis to “vote” for the preservation of a building? Some of the historical architectural evidence in the city must be preserved, we just don't know what it is that is valuable enough to want to save. However, none of the buildings mentioned at the beginning of the article has retained that peculiar combination of modernist architecture and the poor quality of Soviet construction, which is so characteristic of these buildings (partial exceptions might be the Dailes Theatre and the “silage tower” – the high-rise in the territory of the former citadel, which has not yet been affected by major externally visible changes). The existing and upcoming “corrections” by independent Latvian architects to Soviet-era architecture, which prevent these buildings from being acknowledged as valuable even from a historical perspective alone, could be an unconscious step towards bringing about their demolition. But perhaps they should be restored to their original appearance? I must immediately counter that this would be just as difficult as rebuilding the House of the Blackheads in its original or near-original form, because certain forms of life have irrevocably vanished, which are expressed in certain materials, construction technologies, and interior details, and which are perceptible to us through direct contact – whether by hand or eye – with the building. Moreover, the attitude towards Soviet architecture cannot be the same in all cases – if a general rule of city language is violated, for example, its silhouette is ruined or the height of the surrounding historical development is ignored, then for the city pedestrian, who is forced to endure a nonsensical mug on the city's face every day, the damage caused is disproportionately large. (Until now, I thought that respecting the general architectural features of Riga's centre was important, regardless of the specific appearance of any new building, yet some examples that seemingly preserve the existing building line and height make me doubt even this assumption.) Therefore, the building's location in the city is also important, and when thinking about architecture in the city, general musings are not enough; each specific house and its surroundings must be evaluated. The relationship between certain buildings and the surrounding urban environment cannot be predicted, because architecture is similar to art in the sense that an unexpected solution can always arise (like the Eiffel Tower in Paris) that overturns our habitual notions of good and bad architecture. Nevertheless, Soviet-era buildings are already part of Riga’s development, so one only has to ask whether the ignoring and even denial of the former city image (the rules that determined the look of the city as it was and partly still remains) has transformed my notions of good and bad architecture here, in this place – namely, the centre of Riga. Perhaps that is where the crux of the problem lies. The question of whether Soviet-era architecture in Riga should be demolished or preserved is not a question about the architecture itself, but about our perceptions and beliefs. Because work in architecture, to paraphrase a once-expressed insight – just like work in philosophy – is more work on oneself, one’s views, and how we look at things. In a sense, every building has a meaning, one can find – as if unconsciously activating – the understanding of the world corresponding to it, but a city is something more than just a large collection of individual buildings or “great architecture”. Consequently, I can only understand a particular house by understanding the city itself, and my perceptions of Riga, its history, and its inhabitants are what determine the gnawing feeling of dissatisfaction or lack of fulfilment when walking along a street in Riga's centre – just like in a conversation where one is unable to find a common meaning in what is being said. How a person understands architecture can be seen from what they say and write (or draw, plan, and the decisions they make). It is impossible to look at an individual house and not see the city; more precisely, it is impossible to abandon the perceptions that determine the evaluation of a building when we are observing the rest of the city's development. This means that I must be responsible for every understanding or intolerant gaze directed at a building, even just its fragment or detail, because it also bears witness to how I understand the city.
Article first published in the April 2006 issue of the magazine "Rīgas Laiks"