Melnā kaste: Saruna ar mākslinieci Sarmīti Māliņu

Armands Zelčs | 2009. gada 28. May

Sarmīte Māliņa mākslā sākusi darboties 20. gadsimta 80. gadu beigās un līdzīgi kā Ojārs Pētersons, Oļegs Tillbergs, Sergejs Davidovs, Kristaps Ģelzis, Andris Breže, Indulis Gailāns, Juris Boiko, Juris Putrāms, Aija Zariņa u.c. aizsāka jaunu mūsdienu latviešu mākslas posmu.

90. gadu paaudzes lasītāji noteikti atminēsies pirmās performances ar Māliņas līdzdalību, tā paša laika jaunatnes žurnālu “Avots”, kura radošajā grupā viņa ietilpa, un dažādas izstādes pilsētvidē. Tiem, kuriem šis laiks nebija tāls no dzimšanas mirkļa, Māliņas darba rezultātus tagad ir iespēja sataustīt pastkastītē vai aplūkot kādā grāmatā. Paralēli mākslas radīšanai Māliņa jau vairāk nekā trīspadsmit gadus ir laikraksta “Diena” galvenā māksliniece un darbojas grāmatu ilustrāciju jomā. Desmit gadu periodā saņēmusi gan apbalvojumus, gan arī sašutuma pilnus komentārus.

Pēdējos gados Sarmītes Māliņas vārds parādījies kopdarbos ar fotogrāfu Kristapu Kalnu. Tandēms veiksmīgi pieteicis sevi laikmetīgās mākslas izstādē Maskavā un Cēsu mākslas festivālā, iegūstot skatītāju simpātiju balvu. Savukārt ekspertu komisijas simpātiju rezultātā Cēsu mākslas festivāla darbs “Mīlestība nekad nebeidzas” izvirzīts pirmajai Vilhelma Purvīša balvai.

Armands Zelčs: Ko atstāji deviņdesmitajos? Ko tagad vairs nedari?

Sarmīte Māliņa: Mazāk sanāk dejot pa galdiem.

A.Z.: Ap to laiku sāki arī dienu pavadīt “Dienā”.

S.M.: Jā. Pēc tam kad mani atbrīvoja no darba trolejbusu un tramvaju pārvaldē, laikraksta “Diena” pielikumam “Sestdiena” bija vajadzīgs mākslinieciskais redaktors. Toreiz tas vēl bija lielformāta, melnbalts izdevums. Vēlāk – krāsains žurnāls. Tagad galvenās rūpes ir pamatavīze.

A.Z.: Neesmu strādājis laikrakstā, bet pieļauju – rodas grūtības sabalansēt rūpes par pamatavīzi ar rūpēm par pamatnodarbi?

S.M.: Tas ir pilnīgi kaut kas cits! Es domāju, visiem ir vienādi – darbs, ar ko tu pelni maizi, un tad daži brīži, kad tu darbojies ar mākslu. Jāpiepūlas un jākoncentrējas, lai šis fakts vispār notiktu, jo nav viegli izbrīvēt tam laukumu.

A.Z.: “Laukumu” izbrīvē periodiski?

S.M.: Nu saproti – kā nepārtraukti varētu strādāt! Kur to darīt? Kur to likt? Kam tas vajadzīgs? Tas jau nekam nav vajadzīgs. Ja ir izstāde, kam dīvainā kārtā esi pavilkts līdzi, tad kaut ko radi. Pārējo es visu, ja ienāk galvā, pierakstu. Bet, ja nepierakstu, tad tas tūdaļ aizmirstas, lai cik izcils arī konkrētajā brīdī šķistu. Otrajā dienā vairs neparko to nevari atcerēties. Tev tā nav?

A.Z.: Es visas lapiņas parasti pazaudēju. Vai arī aizmirstu, ka kaut ko esmu pierakstījis. Kad apjauti vēlmi darboties mākslā?

S.M.: Nebija jau cita ko apjaust! To laikam kā vairākums sapratu bērnībā! Skolā, vismaz manā laikā, bija sienasavīzes. Tur visi zīmēja, centās, lai būtu smuki… Piedalījos visādos zīmēšanas konkursos. Par kategoriju “māksla” tad vēl nedomāju. Nesapratu tikai, kāpēc lielie mākslinieki tajos konkursos apbalvoja tādus, kuri, kā toreiz šķita, pat neprata aizkrāsot līdz malām. Tagad, kad esmu liela, saprotu, kāpēc tie mākslinieki izvēlējas tos “nemākuļus”.

A.Z.: Liela izaugi būros?

S.M.: Tagad, ar laika distanci, to tā varētu uztvert, bet vienlaikus jāsecina, ka tas bija bērnības rotaļu turpinājums. No šāda aspekta vēl joprojām esmu “trušu būrī”. Par to prieks. “Cilvēki būros” varētu būt pirmā nopietnā akcija. Trīs dienas pirms tam sēdējām ar Sergeju, Oļegu un papīru čupām. Mums bija neskaitāmas idejas, un tad pienāca tās dienas rīts ar būriem. Ja pareizi atceros, nelietojām pat alkoholu. Īstajā rītā sapratu: kaut tā diena nebūtu pienākusi! Bija drusciņ bailes, bet Oļegs piezvanīja no Zaķusalas un teica, ka viņš trušu būrus jau atradis un traktoru noorganizējis. Nekas cits neatlika kā iet un darīt to visu.

A.Z.: Sadarbība ar Oļegu un Sergeju turpinājās arī pēc tam?

S.M.: Jā! Mākslas dienu ietvaros sanāca. Tas bija tāds lauciņš, kur varēja plosīties. Arī akcija “Staburaga bērni” stacijas tunelī. Sergejam bija paredzēts vilkt ūdenslīdēju skafandru, viņam tajā rītā bija 38° temperatūra, un tas skafandrs bija mežonīgi smags, bet viņš to visu izturēja. Taču pēc tam gan nolikās uz vairākām dienām.

A.Z.: Tagad Mākslas dienās tāds panīkums iestājies.

S.M.: Varbūt tas ir atkarīgs no tā, kas organizē to visu. Jo tas ir tāds, nu… Kaut gan tajos laikos arī bija dažādas izstādes, nav tā, ka visi tikai skraidīja pa tuneļiem ar miličiem apkārt.

A.Z.: Varbūt bija grūtāk nokļūt izstāžu zālē nekā tunelī?

S.M.: Tunelis bija iespēja. Nevajadzēja mudināt nevienu. Gods bija piedalīties. Un azarts. Šīs akcijas tunelī un citur arī bija 90. gadu mākslinieku paaudzes neapjausta darbības pozīciju nostiprināšana. Bija arī gājieni no akadēmijas uz Doma laukumu, bet tas nebija gluži tas pats, kas tunelī. Tajos laikos arī Teātra dienas bija notikums, kad aktieri kostīmos gāja pa Brīvības ielu. Tagad Artmanes bēres varbūt pavilkās uz to. Bija taču grezni?

A.Z.: Biju šokā! Vai profesija “mākslinieks” pieskaitāma pie tām, kur pensionēšanās vecums iestājas pēc 30 gadiem?

S.M.: Redze noteikti pasliktinās, bet vēl pēc desmit gadiem. Esi drošs, pati pārbaudīju. Kapitālisms arī palīdz novecot. Atceros brīdi, kad aizgāju uz karnevālu tieši no “Dienas” redakcijas. Vienīgā maska man bija kartona kaste galvā. Ātri noreibu tajā karnevālā, sēdēju kaktā un raudāju, jo nebija vairs spēka tusēt pa īstam.

A.Z.: Bet tu jau atrodi laiku jauniem darbiem un izstādēm.

S.M.: Nu nav man nevienas izstādes! Personālizstādes.

A.Z.: Kāpēc tā?

S.M.: Sadzīviskā šaurība. Es te, šajā dzīvoklī, esmu tikai otro gadu. Dēļ tās šaurības bija nonācis tik tālu, ka akvareļus nācās gultā rāmēt. Ko citu! Šīs ir tālaika paliekas (rāda uz ovālveida skapīti – galdiņu ar caurspīdīgu virsmu, kur iekšā visvisādi sīkumiņi). Šis, piemēram, ir Kristapa Ģelža pirksts no viena darba. Man viss bija mikroskopisks. Visas manas iztēles un fantāzijas varēja ietilpt tādos sīkumos. Tagad ir pretējais: es tos sīkumus vairs nevācu. Bet neesmu iemācījusies dzīvot viena. Es tev parādīšu vienu kasti… (aiziet pakaļ kastei, pēc brīža atnāk atpakaļ ar papīra rulli). O! Gribi, es tev Andra Brežes darbu uzdāvināšu? Vienīgais – tur rakstīts: Sarmītei.

A.Z.: Tu esi ar mieru no tā šķirties?

S.M.: Nu jā, tu redzi – ir pagājuši desmit gadi, un es nespēju to nekur eksponēt. Būs tikai jāpieraksta, ka es tev atdāvināju.

A.Z.: Paldies! Ļoti labprāt pieņemšu.

S.M.: Tā kaste ir jāatrod! (aiziet atkal meklēt kasti)

A.Z.: Klau, bet tev jau arī pirms diviem gadiem bija palieli darbi.

S.M.: Jā, tiešām?!

A.Z.: Par šauru vidi nereti nākas dzirdēt visas Latvijas kontekstā. Neesi kādreiz apsvērusi iespēju darboties ārzemēs?

S.M.: Kļūst interesanti (vēl joprojām meklē kasti). Nu labi, varbūt atradīsies… It kā te nav tik daudz vietas, lai varētu kaut ko noslēpt. Gribi, es tev sarkanu šalli ar uzrakstu Coca-Cola atdošu? Dabūju to, kad Kristaps Kalns man ieteica nopirkt divas pudeles šī brīnišķīgā dzēriena.

A.Z.: To savukārt man var nebūt, kur eksponēt.

S.M.: Pie kā mēs palikām?

A.Z.: Pie tā, vai tev nav bijusi iecere doties prom no “Mazās Parīzes”, “Vidzemes Šveices”, nezinu… “Plakanās Gruzijas” – oriģinālvietās laimi meklēt?

S.M.: Vīru, ja? Nu bet es neesmu tāds cilvēks, kas spētu ar sevi to izdarīt. Domāju, uz mani tas neattiecas. Es vispār neprotu dzīvot! Kur nu vēl tāda rosīšanās.

A.Z.: Turi kādu aizdomās, ka prot?

S.M.: Aizdomas, ka dzīvot prot B.G.¹ Vismaz ir mācījies to darīt.

A.Z.: Tad jau Uldis Tīrons arī!

S.M.: O! Tu lasi “Jauno Laiku”?

A.Z.: Reizi četros gados. Ko tu lasi?

S.M.: Ko es lasu? Lasīšana kā izklaide man tagad nedarbojas. Ļoti grūti sastapt ko tādu, kas paņem uzmanību pa īstam. Cerēju uz Deivida Linča (David Lynch) “Ķerot lielo zivi: meditācija, apziņa un radošais gars”, bet atdūros pret nodaļu “Klauna smacējošais gumijas kostīms”. Tālāk netiku, jo man šķita, ka viņš ir pārāk laimīgs. Es vēl pie tā atgriezīšos. Peļēvins labs. Lasīšana prasa nodošanos. Šobrīd manis nav tik daudz. Kaut kā dalos.

A.Z.: Vai sadarbība ar Kristapu Kalnu arī sākās ar grāmatām?

S.M.: Jā. Pirmā grāmata – Jāņa Steika dzejoļu izlase. Prieks, pārsteigums. Tur bija, kur izvērsties. Tā aizgāja. “Kultūras Dienas” vāki. Vēlāk Vilnis Vējš uzaicināja piedalīties nelielā izstādītē “Pornogrāfija”. Tur mēs uztaisījām pirmo darbiņu, tādu pavisam naivu. “Fricis Bērziņš”. Biji? Nebiji.

A.Z.: Gribēju, bet nesanāca aiziet.

S.M.: Tas bija vienā dzīvoklī. Tā izstāde. Mums piešķīra vannasistabu. Kas tad tur bija: tumsa, beibis – lelle, kas, re, kur uz skapja stāv. To es nopirku vienā bērnu apģērbu veikalā. Tad Jēzus pie sienas, un vannā melnos samtos bija apslēpts aparāts, kas atskaņoja Veras Singajevskas bērnu pasaciņas. Tāds šausminieks. Nu jā, un tad Ivars Henrihsons uzaicināja piedalīties “Rudens” izstādē. “Arsenālā” augšā mēs uztaisījām darbu, kas man pašai ļoti patika. Darbs saucās – “Snauda darbojas”.

A.Z.: Snauda! Telefona režīms?

S.M.: Jā, man tas teksts likās tik jocīgs, bet ļoti piestāvēja dar-bam. Pats darbs radās, ejot uz Matīsa tirgu iepirkties caur pirmās slimnīcas teritoriju. Tajā vietā parasti sajūtos kā Tomasa Manna “Burvju kalnā”. Morgā bija remonts, gandrīz viss bija iznests ārā. Man tā teritorija dikti patīk. Esi bijis?

A.Z.: Vienreiz. Sanāca pat nest laukā “gatavo produkciju”.

S.M.: Ā! Tad jau tu zini to vietu. Nuja, bija rudens, lapas dzeltenas, tāda baznīcas atmosfēra, un no morga bija iznestas skārda kušetes, uz kurām liek cilvēkus. Kušetes bija izvietotas zem koka. Šis skats man likās tāda paradīze: tikai atlaisties – un viss…

A.Z.: Ja nemaldos, ēkai blakus ir arī tāds maziņš baseiniņš. No Šarlotes ielas puses ejot, var redzēt.

S.M.: Nu jā, un tad es pasaucu Kristapu, viņš nofotografēja to visu, izdomājām, kāds mums būs tas darbs. Tad vajadzēja tos īstos galdus. Zvanīju uz turieni neskaitāmas reizes un baidījos, ka tik tas remonts nebeidzas un tas viss netiek ienests iekšā. Remonts beidzās. Sazvanīju morga vadītāju. Viņa teica, ka nedos kušetes, bet es teicu, ka atnākšu pie viņiem. Aizgāju. Manuprāt, lai atvēsinātu, mani aizveda tādā kā ekskursijā.

A.Z.: Paskatīties uz realitāti?

S.M.: Jā, paskatīties, bet es nemaz nenoģību! Brīnumaini. Bet nu atvēsinājos – atteicāmies no idejas par autentiskajām mēbelēm. Dabūjām “ARSā” kušetes un pasūtījām augšas pie skārdniekiem. Un tad uz vienas no gultiņām tika projicēts gulošs Kristaps un uz otras es melnās drēbēs. Bija arī muzikālais pavadījums. Tādi kā sirdspuksti. No neskaitāmām spuldzītēm veidots aplis, kam iedegoties nevarēja redzēt projekciju, bet izdziestot attiecīgi bijām redzami mēs. Jā, un kas pēc tam… “Altāris” un tagad Cēsis – tas arī viss.

A.Z.: Bija arī neliela skandāla konvojēts notikums Sv. Marijas Magdalēnas baznīcā.

S.M.: Tā bija, bet tas jau nav vērā ņemams satraukums, ko būtu nepieciešams apspriest. Par darbu “Altāris” kardināls Pujats bija ļoti nobažījies. Viņš zvanīja tajā vakarā, kad mēs visu uzstādījām, un teica par galveno tēlu: “Tāds resns un spalvains.” “Altāra” iecere vilkās divus gadus. Ideja radās, vērojot Lieldienu altārus, ko veidojušas draudzes dažādā izpratnē par māksliniecisko kvalitāti. Lieldienās tas kļūst par centrālo altāri. Tā radās ideja tur ievietot video. Darbība bija tikai tā, ka tēls drusciņ elpoja un kustējās fons. Lieldienu rītā, mirklī, kad notika augšāmcelšanās, tas piecēlās un pazuda. Video ilga trīs dienas. Lai viss notiktu laikā, bija sarunāts cilvēks no baznīcas. Viņš pamāj, mēs pārslēdzam video uz augšāmcelšanos. Atceros, bijām ļoti sastresojušies, ka pārslēgšanas brīdī monitorā varētu parādīties kāds tehnisks uzraksts, bet viss notika bez starpgadījumiem. Protams, tas nebūtu īstenojams bez pārsteidzošas pretimnākšanas no draudzes puses.

A.Z.: Vai Maskavā izstādītais darbs “Vienīgais” ir “Altāra” turpinājums vai suverēna vienība?

S.M.: Suverēna vienība.

A.Z.: Sākot ar darbu “Jā un Nē. Sadalītais krusts”, tavā darbībā iezīmējās reliģijas tēma. Tā jau nav nejaušība?

S.M.: Jā un nē…

A.Z.: Vai mīlestība nekad nebeidzas?

S.M.: Vismaz tā bija rakstīts uz krustiem Ukru gāršas kapos. Tas ir pie Lietuvas robežas. Nokļuvām tur, strādājot pie Imanta Ziedoņa fotoalbuma. Tur arī uzraksts iesēdās atmiņā un vēlāk kļuva par darba nosaukumu. Bija jau neērti veidot kaut ko tik saldu, bet saņēmāmies. Rezultātā sanāca līdzīgi kā mūziķiem – nospēlē ko saldu, un tev par to neko sliktu nesaka, bet velk līdzi.

A.Z.: Pirmo reizi dzirdu par Ukru gāršu, bet daudzkārt esmu lasijis, ka uzraksts “Mīlestība nekad nebeidzas” figurēja arī Cēsīs.

S.M.: Jā, to mēs uzrakstījām uz tās mājas sienas, kurā bija mūsu darbs. Bija sakrājies.

A.Z.: Kopsummā esat iekļuvuši laimīgajā astoņniekā?

S.M.: Jā, tā kaut kā sanāca. Mani jau tagad satrauc doma, ka būs tas pasākums – Purvīša balvas pasniegšana – un tur vajadzēs būt publiskam cilvēkam. Žēl, ka Ģelža tajā astoņniekā nav. Es tev to kasti tā arī neparādīju…

Sarmīte Māliņa dzimusi 1960. gadā Aknīstē (Jēkabpils raj.). Beigusi Rēzeknes Lietišķās mākslas vidusskolu (1980), Latvijas Valsts Mākslas akadēmijas Dizaina nodaļu (1986). No 1994. gada strādā laikrakstā “Diena” par māksliniecisko redaktori. Darbības jomas: objekti, instalācijas, grafiskais dizains, ilustrācija, zīmējums, akvarelis, performance.

1. Boriss Grebenščikovs

(Redaktora piezīme: Raksts pārpublicēts ar redakcijas atļauju no Latvijas vizuālo mākslu žurnala Studija.)

“Cilvēki būros” bija Sarmītes Māliņas, Sergeja Davidova un Oļega Tilberga performance Filharmonijas skvērā (tagad Līvu laukums) 1987. gadā Rīgā. (Foto no Sarmītes Māliņas personīgā arhīva)

Sarmīte Māliņa (Kristapa Kalna foto)

Sarmītes Māliņas vāks laikraksta “Diena” pielikumam “Kultūras Diena”. (Kristapa Kalna foto)

Street named for Čaks changes its coat once again

Rihards Kalniņš | 2009. gada 28. May

Here in Rīga, there’s a notorious street called Čaka iela, which acts as a dividing line between the relatively posh Center with its Art Nouveau buildings, luxury automobiles and brand-name stores, and the more rundown outlying sections of town, filled mostly with stray cats, staggering drunks and dark slot-machine dens.

The street itself, which has certainly inherited more from the latter than from the former, was named after one of Latvia’s most beloved twentieth-century poets, Aleksandrs Čaks, who lived nearby and spent his days roaming the streets and frequenting the small taverns found there before the war.

Čaks, who died in 1950, is famous for crafting sublime little poems—in volumes like Apašs frakā (Apache in a Frock Coat) and Mana Rīga (My Rīga)—about the characters he encountered in the streets, courtyards and bars of his neighborhood, whose tragic beauty inspired his singular vision of the city, his muse.

During the Soviet period, the famous bars on Čaka iela, as elsewhere in Rīga, were shut down and the public consumption of alcohol was outlawed, at least for intermittent periods. The state considered bars and restaurants not so much dens of iniquity, to be eradicated in order to protect the morals of Communist society, but meeting places that could potentially foster and harbor anti-government ideas and bourgeois ideals. They were therefore replaced by kafejnīcas, a cross between a cafeteria and a café, which were intended to nourish the hungry laborer with meals that can still be found throughout Rīga today: sorrel soup, mayonnaise-covered pork chops, beet salad, potatoes and chanterelle gravy, buckwheat groats with sour cream, and, of course, those ubiquitous tall glasses of kefir and buttermilk and kvass.

When the Soviet Union collapsed and Rīga was overrun with poverty and crime, Čaka iela underwent yet another transformation, becoming the city’s infamous red-light district. Much to the delight of men from Scandinavia and Germany, who came to Latvia to seek new business opportunities, prostitutes now sauntered up and down the street that the poet Čaks had once strolled, decades earlier, with his cane, three-piece suit and fedora hat atop his signature bald dome. Many of the prostitutes hung out in what was left of the old Soviet-era cafeterias, where they sat sipping bitter black tea and smoking acrid Prima cigarettes as they waited for clients to get up the nerve to come in.

As the nineties wore on and Latvians acclimated to the transition from a Communist state to a free-market economy, poverty and crime were gradually replaced by corruption and greed. The changes could be gauged on Čaka iela as well. The former red-light district moved farther away, to a more convenient location near a large park, and many of the old kafejnīcas were replaced by stores selling women’s lingerie. The majority of these establishments were merely money-laundering fronts for local mafioso, most of them former members of the Cheka, who had ingeniously conceived of a way both to clean cash and to occupy their girlfriends during the day. For this reason, many of the stores were presided over by immaculately made-up women, dressed from head to toe in Dolce & Gabbana outfits, who perched on stools in front of the register all day long, filing their nails, reading glossy magazines and chattering on their cell phones, ignoring the few stray customers who happened to wander in.

After the turn of the century, a new era dawned in Latvia. In 2004, the country became a full-fledged member of the NATO defense alliance and the European Union; the year before, Rīga had hosted the Eurovision Song Contest, an event that seemed almost like a prerequisite for EU accession. Credit lines opened up, business blossomed, foreign companies moved in, tourism soared, and the city was treated like a lost gem that had been rediscovered by the world once again.

Čaka iela, in its latest incarnation, became home to the sector that served as the middleman for this unprecedented growth, the oil for the machine: the translation industry. Signs advertising “speedy, high-quality, notarized translations” now appeared above the dusty sidewalks. Practically anyone with a college degree could get a job rendering texts from Latvian to English, or German or Swedish, at one of the tiny translation operations, which claimed “to solve all your translation problems,” located a few flights up from the street. As a result, everything adorned with the printed word suddenly appeared in multiple languages, making even the simple process of perusing a restaurant menu feel like the arduous task of studying a work of continental philosophy.

The great boom in translation had another role, much larger than the duty of accommodating foreign visitors or easing business transactions. Latvia is a small, relatively unknown country, and is therefore faced with the constant task of explaining itself, or justifying itself, to the outside world. There is this perpetual need to say, “This is who we are.” The translation industry, from its Čaka iela headquarters, became the pioneer dispatched to spread the good word about Latvia to the uninitiated.

It was the translators’ job to render, into inevitably broken English, the dozens of amateur guidebooks to the city, which now lay in stacks in the new bars and restaurants, extolling the virtues of “most wonderful ancient old city Rīga” and “dynamic thousands year heritages of magnificent peoples of Latvia.” These translators had to keep up with the strings of hyperbole spun by fledgling Latvian copywriters to describe the many entertainment establishments—throbbing clubs and faux Irish pubs, cheap pancake houses and sushi bars staffed by Chinese immigrants from Russia—that suddenly appeared all over town. They also had to translate the endless series of state-issued books and brochures about the history and culture of Latvia, which rapturously detailed the country’s many invaluable contributions to the world, such as the little metal rivets on the pockets of Levi’s jeans—those tiny achievements that small nations often revel in.

For translators, there was a perpetual stream of work to be done. In the first couple of years after joining the EU, Rīga won the right to host a number of international events and competitions, like the World Ice Hockey Championships and the NATO Summit in 2006. These events—gold mines for the translation industry, which rendered the Web sites, schedules, newsletters, leaflets, meetings and seminars into foreign languages for visitors and the press—were treated like coming-out parties for the new EU member state of Latvia. Rīga organized dazzling concerts featuring Latvian pop singers from reality TV shows, performing alongside folklore ensembles and symphony orchestras; elaborate fireworks displays accompanied by mass choruses, who belted out popular songs from the 1980s Singing Revolution; and huge crafts fairs selling an unlimited array of woolen socks and mittens, linen blouses, amber necklaces and ethnographic jewelry—all stuff that the locals never wear but are constantly being peddled to visitors, through the efforts of earnest translators, as genuine Latvian souvenirs.

As the layers of translation piled up, so did the various identities for Rīga—identities that were themselves mere interpretations, or translations, of the city. One of the dominant identities was Rīga as a paradise for so-called “sex tourism”: a capital for debauchery. Indeed, men of all ages packed into cheap Ryanair flights in Liverpool and Dublin and came in search of cheap booze and eager strippers. The public groused about being forced to endure these roving bands of blokes, whose belches reverberated at night through the streets of the Old Town. During the summer months, when most of Rīga was away in the countryside and there was nothing better to report, evening news programs carried special broadcasts about the problem, complete with shaky cameras hidden inside duffel bags capturing drunken men trying to hire prostitutes from burly strip-club bouncers. Several times, inebriated tourists were arrested for urinating on the Freedom Monument—a sin roughly equivalent to pissing on the Eternal Flame in Arlington Cemetery. Sketchy clubs, with names like Mary, Monroe and Rolexxx, popped up all over the Old Town, and taxis idled on the corners ready to take fares to nearby erotic massage parlors. Those who had been opposed to the EU shouted, I told you so, as if having balding British bachelor partiers in skirts and halter tops puking on the sidewalk at three in the afternoon were the price of joining the New Europe.

The other popular interpretation of Rīga during these years was the city as real estate boom town. Rīga’s famous Art Nouveau buildings, many of which had been abandoned since the early nineties, were suddenly snatched up and renovated into condominiums and office space. The compulsive buying and selling of properties quickly jacked up property prices to astronomical heights, though the steady supply of easy credit assured that homebuyers could keep up with the inflating bubble. Shiny new luxury automobiles, mostly S-class Mercedeses (for him) and Porsche Cayennes (for her), parked on the sidewalks in front of the city’s new gourmet restaurants and deluxe health spas. Rīga was lauded as the hottest city for business this side of the Baltic Sea, and everybody wanted a piece of the action.

But neither of these interpretations of Rīga was ready for the economic crisis that came crashing down upon the region in the fall of 2008. Bachelor-party tourism has dropped considerably this season, and many of the old strip clubs have been forced to get dressed and close up shop. Now, instead of news reports about how stag parties are staining the medieval face of the Old City, Rīga has tried to coax back its former enemies by ensuring them how safe the city has become. The city loudly promises to crack down on crooked cab companies and to defend tourists against getting grossly overcharged for a bottle of champagne and a lap dance. But regardless of these efforts, the teenagers in the Old City who once handed out fliers for free drinks at Pussy Lounge or Mademoiselle Cigar Club now stand about idly, smoking cigarettes and eating pelmeņi dumplings with sour cream and horseradish from Styrofoam take-out containers.

Likewise, the bursting of the real estate bubble has left citizens with colossal mortgages to repay on apartments whose value has been cut in half. Entire office complexes and condominium buildings, completed just before the economy went bust, now stand empty, the labels still affixed to their window frames, strips of industrial plastic wrap flapping in the breeze. Those who can bail out of their properties move back to the sprawling districts of Soviet-era block-style apartment buildings, the so-called mikrorajoni that surround central Rīga, which are now seeing an unprecedented influx of luxury cars parked on their labyrinths of broken asphalt. Many of the gourmet restaurants and health spas have also closed, adding to the lines of empty storefronts beneath the sculptures of gargoyles and maidens that adorn the Art Nouveau facades in the center of town.

One evening not too long ago, I took a midnight stroll across the city and somehow ended up on Čaka iela, near my first apartment in Rīga. Gone are the prostitutes of the early nineties, who stood on the corners in fishnets and bustiers. Gone are the lingerie shops opened before the turn of the century, leaving empty shells spewing electrical wire in their place. Gone are the Soviet-era kafejnīcas, with their flies buzzing around plates of jellied meats and bowls of creamy salads. And with the current economic crisis in full swing, gone are most of the EU-accession-era translation offices, too. There’s not much to work on anyway: the gross domestic product is down almost 20 percent, and the government announces new budget cuts on a near weekly basis, which means there won’t be any texts left to write soon, much less to translate. The apache of Čaka iela has shed his frock coat and awaits his newest incarnation. In the meantime, Rīga is, as the countless signs in empty windows declare, “For Rent,” and merely lays there, untranslated, in all its tragic beauty.

What would the late poet Aleksandrs Čaks say about the latest incarnation of the street that now bears his name?

Šlesers support group in Chicago disbands under pressure

Andris Straumanis | 2009. gada 27. May

A short-lived support group of Chicago-area Latvians who want to see the controversial Ainārs Šlesers become the next mayor of Rīga has disbanded in the wake of increasing criticism of the effort.

Chicago lawyer Roberts Blumbergs, organizer of the support group, told Latvians Online in a May 27 e-mail that the effort is being disbanded because the sharp reaction against it has led several members to quit.

“When I founded the Ainārs Šlesers support group in Chicago, the idea was that many Chicagoans would be ready to work with who would most likely be the next mayor of Rīga,” Blumbergs wrote in a May 27 letter announcing the group’s dissolution. “The group did not speak for all Latvian-Americans, but that was the impression created in the press, causing a great deal of speculation.”

The group, Aināru Šleseru par Rīgas Mēru Čikāgas Atbalsta Grupa (Ainārs Šlesers for Rīga Mayor Chicago Support Group), was formed earlier this month in advance of the June 6 municipal and European Parliament elections in Latvia. In a letter to Šlesers, Blumbergs told the candidate that the support group’s membership would include a number of familiar members of the Latvian-American community. Although they may support a candidate, Latvian citizens outside the homeland are not able to vote in the country’s municipal elections.

But not everyone has agreed with the support group. Both the United Latvian Associations of Chicago (Čikāgas Latviešu organizāciju apvienība, or ČLOA) and the American Latvian Association (ALA) issued statements in the past several days “strongly” distancing themselves from the support group.

Šlesers, a member of the conservative First Party of Latvia (Latvijas Pirmā partija / Latvijas ceļš, or LPP/LC), is the leading candidate for mayor of Rīga, according to recent polls. His chief rivals are Nils Ušakavs of the socialdemocratic Harmony Centre (Saskaņas centrs) and Ģirts Valdis Kristovskis of the relatively new Civil Union (Pilsoniskā savienība).

In his bid for mayor of Rīga, Šlesers has campaigned on a platform of economic development that would see Latvia’s capital city become “a Northern European regional center in the areas of finance, business, tourism and services,” according to his Web site, www.slesersrigai.lv. He has promised his administration would work to create thousands of well-paying jobs within five years. Šlesers also promises a war on bureaucracy.

However, as the nation’s transportation minister in the governments of former prime ministers Ivars Godmanis and Aigars Kalvītis, Šlesers found himself named in several controversies, including the “Jūrmalgate” election scandal, and has been criticized for political heavy-handedness and the degree of influence he has in placing family and friends in government jobs.

The Chicago support group sought closer ties between Latvian-Americans and whom it expected would be the new mayor of Rīga. In the letter to Šlesers, Blumbergs said the support group wanted to help promote foreign business interest in Rīga and to develop cultural and humanitarian programs.

“We hope that you will be able to visit Latvians in America and hear our ideas and suggestions, as well as welcome our representatives in Rīga,” the letter continued. “We would like to begin cultural exchanges, for example, so that children from Latvia could visit Latvian summer camps in America, and our children could travel to summer camps in Latvia.”

The support group’s membership, according to the letter, included a recipient of the Order of Three Stars (Latvia’s highest civilian award), Latvian school teachers and parents, and members of Latvian fraternities.

Reaction to the group’s efforts began shortly after a May 12 opinion piece by Blumbergs appeared in the Rīga daily newspaper Neatkarīgā. In the article, “Buldozers līdzīgs Obamam un Deilijam” (A Bulldozer Similar to Obama and Daley), Blumbergs lauded Šlesers’ potential for lifting Rīga out of economic crisis.

The ČLOA board issued a May 23 statement distancing itself from the support group, adding that it is convinced that the majority of Chicago-area Latvians agree.

The statement, signed by board chairman Jānis Vilciņš, also reminded the support group that cultural and educational exchanges with Latvia, as well as humanitarian programs, have been in place through various Latvian organizations since the country regained independence in 1991.

Echoing the Chicago associations’ announcement, the national American Latvian Association on May 26 issued its own statement. The ALA in part sought to dispel the image that the Chicago-based support group spoke for all Latvian-Americans.

“This group does not represent U.S. Latvians,” the ALA statement said. “It expresses only the political convictions of its 15 members, to which it has all rights.”

The ALA statement, signed by Chairman Juris Mežinskis and Director of Public Affairs Jānis Kukainis, continued that as a nonprofit educational organization it is not allowed to support any political party in Latvia.

However, the statement added that in Latvia’s elections ALA members traditionally have supported conservative parties. The statement noted that in the 2006 parliamentary election, Latvian citizens in the United States overwhelmingly supported New Era (Jaunais laiks), while LPP/LC received just 2 percent of the vote. A support group for Jaunais laiks operated in Chicago during the 2006 parliamentary election.

“Let these facts illustrate U.S. Latvians’ support for the popularity of Ainārs Šlesers’ party in the United States,” Mežinskis and Kukainis wrote. “As far as is known about this support group’s composition, we can safely forecast that LPP/LC’s popularity in the U.S. will not be improved.”

Although his support group is disbanding, Blumbergs said he remains convinced that Šlesers is the best candidate for mayor of Rīga.

“I and some former members still plan to apply our skills and sweat to work for Rīga,” Blumbergs wrote in his May 27 letter, “both to develop business and cultural ties, as well as to form a sister city program with Chicago.”

Andris Straumanis is a special correspondent for and a co-founder of Latvians Online. From 2000–2012 he was editor of the website.