This is one of my all-time favourite buildings in the Kaliningrad region’s coastal resort, Svetlogorsk (German: Rauschen). Without genning up on its history, I would estimate that it dates to around the 1920s and is designed and constructed in a neo-Gothic style. The wooden cladding, turret finial, pointed and high gables, clambering levels and fascinating asymmetry make for a very interesting Carpenter Gothic structure steeped in the Romanticist tradition. Hoffmann would have been proud of it!
Svetlogorsk Gothic (Rauschen)
As noted in my previous article, at the turn of the 21st century, this was home to the Café Mozart. It has sat idle and empty for many moons since and was up for sale in 2018, although on our New Year’s Eve trip 2019-2020 to Svetlogorsk , the ‘for sale’ banner was missing. Has it been sold? Is it ‘off the market’? Who knows? All I know is that it embodies all the atmospheric architectural features that my imagination needs and craves!
Gothic, centre of Svetlogorsk (former Rauschen), Russia
Alluring & atmospheric! ~ Svetlogorsk (former Rauschen), Russia
On 23 June 2016, the British people voted in a democratic referendum to leave the European Union. One thousand three hundred and eighteen days later ~ the political establishment and liberal-left pressure groups having exhausted every trick in the book and more to overturn the will of the people and, in the words of the Liberal Democrats, ‘Cancel Brexit’, even if it meant undermining the very foundation on which the UK’s democratic system historically depends ~ the UK under Boris Johnson’s command ~ thanks mainly to Nigel Farage ~ has at last extricated itself from the Federalist Frankenstein otherwise known as the European Union.
Independence Day: Freedom from the EU
Make no mistake, 31 January 2020 was a momentous day in history. It was the day when natural and commonsense nationalism triumphed over the undemocratic, dictatorial aims of a Neoliberal elite which will stop at nothing to push its globalist agenda. With the UK sailing merrily away, bets are now on as to who will be next to jump. Until recently, it would have been unthinkable to suggest it could be the French, but with Captain Macron at the helm of the globalist Bounty, the scent of mutiny is gathering in the air. Thank heavens that when the French people finally see the light, as we did in the UK, and desert the sinking ship, Le Pen will be there with her safety net. We, in Britain, have been waiting to take our country back. Le Pen says, ‘the world is waiting for the return of France’. More to the point, the world is waiting for the return of Europe.
Independence Day: Freedom from the EU
On the positive side, let’s pay tribute to the architect of our Great Escape, Nigel Farage, who took on the British Establishment and won . Here is his exit speech from the EU pantomime [Link here]
Notice the icy cold Gestapo-type tones as they block Farage’s final words: “If you disobey the Rules you get cut off!!” That just about sums up all the EU says they stand for, but don’t. Have you ever noticed how those that shout the loudest about Freedom of Speech, Democracy etc, are the ones that shout you down the loudest. A case of the sulky EU taking their ball from the playground. Sadly, for them that is, less and less people are willing to play.
There is a historic battle going on now across the West, in Europe, America and elsewhere: it is Globalism against Populism. You may loathe Populism, but I’ll tell you a funny thing, it’s becoming very popular!
NIGEL FARAGE in his final address to the EU Parliament, 29 January 2020
There are a plethora of travel guides out there on the internet that like to make sweeping statements about Russian people, as if the people of the largest country in the world can be whittled down to fit ~ like a misconceived square peg into the round hole of consolation. After much negative stereotyping, these articles tend to intimate that in spite of what you have heard, when you meet them Russian people are not so bad after all. It is suggested that they come across as brusque, even rude, but, guess what! ~ when you get to know them they are just as superb and wonderful as any English, German or American person. And what is more, despite having been brought up cooking behind an Iron Curtain, their food is no less delicious.
Armed then
with this image of a bear with sandwiches, we had not the slightest misgiving
or uncharitable apprehension that later today we would have the extraordinary
experience of meeting and dining with Olga’s mum.
First, we
had to get to Kaliningrad, because remember, Dear Reader, Olga had been so
concerned that her English visitors would baulk at the imperfections there that
she had taken the precaution of squirreling them away in the coastal resort of
Svetlogorsk, had installed them in the Hotel Russ, where everything was obvious
and the fitness centre was minus its wheel.
Yesterday,
we had travelled by taxi from Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk, but today, whether to
save money or merely to be brave, Olga suggested that we go by train.
We had
returned to the Russ from our afternoon drink in the bar, which had no toilet,
got changed ~ rugged ourselves up ~ trudged our way back through the new fall
of snow, it was snowing as we did so, to arrive at Svetlogorsk’s railway
station just as dusk was gathering. We were right on time: a big, old solid
lump of a train was making its way ponderously along the track to where we
stood at the end of the line.
Trains waiting at Svetlogorsk Station, December 2000
Quickly ~
as quick as it was possible with conditions as they were ~ we hurried along the
length of the platform, passing this beast of a train’s bull-nose front until
we reached the first carriage door. Unlike British trains where, in getting on
and off, you are constantly advised to ‘mind the gap’, here it was a case of
mind the small, narrow, rusty iron steps up which you have to teeter if you
want to get inside. As the doors were shut when we arrived, there was no small
amount of dexterity involved in ascending, balancing and opening them, but
teamwork won the day, and before you could say ‘arse over head’ we were on
board and, a few seconds later, on boards. Through no fault of a
well-illuminated carriage we could have been forgiven for believing that
British vandalism had arrived in Russia at last, but it soon dawned on me, with
the cold comfort of a Cold War documentary, that Western decadence would simply not be
countenanced, that there really were not any cushions or padding upon the
seats, just two long rows of slat-back wooden benches.
I ignored
what I thought was my brother saying something like “who’s going to pick the
splinters out” and made my way to the seat at the other end of the carriage.
There may not have been neon lights above our heads saying ‘Look at us, we’re
foreigners’, but the inhabitants of the carriage were gawping at us all the
same.
They
continued to gawp, as if all were one, even though it necessitated some
backward craning on their part, whilst we found that we could not hear each
other speak below the sound of our peculiar whispering. Fortunately, unlike Max
Bygraves, the train never lingered longer, for, with a sickening, unannounced
jolt, which took the audience as much by surprise as it had us, wrenching their
heads in the other direction, we and the hulking train lurched clumsily out of
the station.
Within a
few moments of rolling along we had to admit to each other that although the
seats had looked hard, cold, hostile and uninviting they were all that and more
besides. There was no heat in the carriage; a couple of young scruffy looking
blokes were taking it in turns to drain a bottle of vodka; two old babushkas,
who simply could not refrain from turning their heads every now and then, gave us a withering stare; a gnarled
old man, his coat pulled up over his
ears, rocked back and forth with the rhythm of the train, one minute asleep,
one minute not; and almost everyone without exception was dragging on a fag, ~
not that this bothered us, tobacco smoking had not quite yet become the
wretched victim of self-proclaimed health zealots. I cannot remember whether we
lit up or not, but we most likely did. Brother Joss always had a packet of
roll-ups with him in those days, and besides, the complete and utter absence of
any detectable heating system made striking the match appealing.
Svetlogorsk to Kaliningrad by Train: Tickets Pashalsta!
I was just
wondering when and how we would pay for this magic carpet ride, when a
fierce-looking babushka armed with a large leather handbag waved that secret
weapon menacingly in our direction and snarled something at us, which might
have meant anything, such as ‘Hand over your roll-ups’. Such was her fierce
demeanour that we would have quite willingly handed over anything had not Olga,
taking money out of her purse and passing it to the handbag waver, received in
exchange three slips of paper. Ahhh, so these were our tickets to ride.
In spite of
the excitement, Kaliningrad seemed an age away. The old engine and its ‘ready
for retirement long ago’ rolling stock, rocked, swayed, groaned and complained
every snowbound inch of the way. The undernourished light cast a yellow shroud
over the carriage windows through which nothing could be seen except darkness
and small rivers of snow, which stretched out across the opaque expanse and
collected in miniature drifts along the lower edge of the sills. It was a long
journey; a hard-on-your bum journey; and a very cold journey; but we got there
in the end ~ we actually made it.
The No
Frills Travel Company operated from a station which was not in the least
different from what you would expect: it seemed that no expense had been spared
in reinforced concrete and metal struts.
We
alighted, a little undignified, from the steep, narrow and rickety steps, onto
a slab. A bitter wind was channeling through the yawning end of the station
canopy and what signs there were to tell us how to escape from it were all, of
course, in Russian. As this was Olga’s home town, she did know the way, and
although nothing softening or unremitting greeted us in the station’s concrete underside,
simply evading the wind’s cutting edge was consolation enough.
We were now
passing along the same subterranean passages that we had traversed yesterday
when we arrived in Kaliningrad, from which we would cross the vast rectangular
concourse, and out through one of a number of wonderfully arched Gothic doors.
We had done this, and were now standing, ankle deep in snow, on the perimeter
of that vast concrete plain where yesterday my senses had been so seductively
stimulated by a scene so typically Soviet.
This
evening, however, there were no shoveling soldiers and all but one lonely taxi
driver. All was quiet on the Eastern Front.
Fortunately,
we had done our bit with public transport for the time being and were now all
together looking out for Olga’s friend, the man who was going to meet us. We
did not have long to wait.
Antiques & collectables
Andrew was
a big man; you could not make out his features as he had a muffler over the
lower half of his face and a woolly hat pulled firmly down on his head. He
shook our hands warmly, exchanged a few short words with Olga, laughed and
embraced us and then beckoned for us to follow. Olga had confided my love of history
and antiques to him and he was now leading us to an antique and collectables
shop some few yards away on the edge of the station carpark.
The antique shop was located in a large room in one of the relatively few remaining original Königsberg buildings. Access was gained by passing through a large, heavy, metal studded door, on the other side of which was a veritable cornucopia of Soviet and pre-Soviet Königsberg relics ~ I’ve stopped short of claiming that it was Aladdin’s Cave, as Aladdin would most likely have found it difficult to get a visa here and is most likely on his way to England as we speak in the back of a Co-op lorry.
I shall not
dwell on all the goodies I was interested in here, or what I would have liked
to have bought. In a couple of days’, we would return to this shop and make
three or four purchases. Suffice it to say, that for someone who had spent a
lifetime involved with antiques and curios this was a place far beyond Aladdin
and his half-brother Ali Barber (since arrested in Rochdale).
We were
actually on our way to Olga’s mums, but our driver, Andrew, had been asked by
Olga to wheel us around via Königsberg Cathedral, at this time one of the few
historic buildings to have been given the green light for restoration.
Königsberg Cathedral
Königsberg Cathedral (this photo taken in winter 2004)
As we
drove, I remember passing by a great concrete monolith, softened by and
shrouded in snow, and thinking to myself, what on earth is that? (I was later
to learn it was the ‘House of the Soviets’). But the soon-to-hove-into view
Gothic turret, high perpendicular gables and broad sweeping roof of Königsberg
Cathedral erased all other sentiments, save for that inspired by the sublime
scene in front of me. Now when I look back on my first impression of Königsberg
Cathedral, its haunting profile sketched against a whiteboard of snow, I gain
some insight into the extent to which already the dark and troubled past of
this place had begun to draw me in. But whilst the vast silhouette stamped its
indelible mark, my recollections of the interior of Königsberg Cathedral in the
year 2000 are vague to say the least. I was entranced by my first view of the
external edifice but wrote very little in my diary about what lay behind the
great oak doors. I mention renovation work to various wall monuments and note
that it was not possible at that time to venture further than the ground floor,
but much more than this I did not register, although the impression I have is that unlike today
the doors opened into one very large rectangular room in which seating and
other appurtenances seemed to be at a minimum.
And that, strangely enough, is all that I can recall of Königsberg Cathedral on the inside; whilst the memory of its outside has never let go of me … and never let me go.
Before going anywhere today, the first thing we do is
consult the internet. If you undertake ~ or have already undertaken ~ an
internet search of ‘Kaliningrad’ chances are that you will turn up, or have
already turned up, a disproportionate amount of negativity. This is especially
true of UK media articles, that is articles disseminated by the mainstream UK
press, particularly articles written prior to and up to 2018, when Kaliningrad
hosted the World Cup tournament in which England played against Belgium.
In the months leading up to the World Cup the
concerted vitriol reached its apotheosis, which was rather unfortunate for the
British press as, almost without exception, the majority of British fans who
were not dissuaded from coming to Kaliningrad agreed that they had enjoyed
themselves in Russia and in Kaliningrad in particular. So, it was a warm
welcome for the British footer fans and a red face for the British media.
Since 2018, there has been a noticeable change in tone,
with some, though not all, journalists adopting a more honest appraisal of Kaliningrad’s
status as a tourist destination. Leading travel guides for English-language
readers blaze the trail, using such words to describe Kaliningrad as ‘exciting,
vibrant, a city and region of contrasts, fascinating, quirky and historically
unique’.
Indeed, our late friend Victor Rybinin, artist and
historian, defined its unique character as the combination of two cultures, first
German and then Russian, and it is somewhere between this polarity that its
fascination resides.
Königsberg: a city that refuses to die
Kaliningrad’s duality really begins at the close of WWII. Until that time it had been the capital of East Prussia, an imposing and noble city, boasting an architectural composition of Romanesque, Baroque and Gothic designs. Originally known as Königsberg, the city changed names when it changed people and country in 1946, the historical city of Königsberg having been all but extirpated from aerial bombing in 1944 and the Soviet siege and battle of 1945. From 1946 onwards, Königsberg, now renamed Kaliningrad, and the territory surrounding it, was absorbed by the Soviet Union.
Home to the Baltic Fleet, and of strategic geo-political importance, the area became a closed domain and remained this way until the collapse of the Soviet Union. The dissolution of the satellite Baltic states in the 1990s and their subsequent harvesting by the European Union created a physical and psychological barrier ~ physical in that the Kaliningrad region is separated by countries unallied to Russia, psychological in the sense that this little piece of land, the westernmost outpost of the Russian Federation, has become a political/military bogeyman for the West to rattle its sabres at ~ little wonder, therefore, that it is ringed with NATO bases! Never mind, it does not worry the locals, so it need not worry you.
History is Kaliningrad’s speciality
For the history buff, especially those interested in
WWI, WWII and the Cold War, Königsberg-Kaliningrad has plenty to offer. The
city contains a number of wartime monuments and museums and so many underground
shelters that I have often amused myself whilst travelling from one side of the
city to the next by taking part in my own spot the bunker competition. One of
the bunkers, the aptly named Museum Bunker, is open to the public. It is very
Nazispheric and replete with military history exhibits.
Spot the German bunker competition
The most obvious examples of Königsberg’s military
history predate the conflicts of the 20th century, although, like
every building in the beleaguered city of 1945, they played a not
inconsiderable defensive role in the final battle for Königsberg.
Königsberg was a fortress city, which, by the middle
and the late 19th century, was heavily defended by two continuous
rings of red-brick forts joined by an elaborate network of slit walls,
bastions, gates, ramparts and crenelated towers. A prodigious proportion of
both defensive rings is extant today, thanks to their solid construction, the determination
of local history groups to conserve them and considerable restoration
investment. Some of the forts now house museums; others are work in progress.
One of Königsberg’s inner circle of fortsMoat surrounding one of Königsberg’s forts in the outer ring
Smaller relics both of Königsberg and from its military
past can be found in any one of the city’s antique shops and ~ joy of all joys
~ at the city’s central street market. This haven for collectors has evolved
into a boot fair/flea market hybrid, selling all manner of WWII and Soviet
relics along with remnants of Königsberg itself.
One of the most atmospheric, or should that be claustrophobic,
reminders of the Cold War is the Soviet submarine which is moored at the side
of the Pregolya (German: Pregel) River on a bankside development mainly
devoted to other marine vessels, museums and education centres under the
auspices of the World Ocean Museum.
Soviet submarine, Kaliningrad
Kaliningrad’s Amber Museum is possibly the most well-known museum in the city and its territory. It was established in 1972 and occupies one of the inner-circle forts on the bank of one of Kaliningrad’s lakes (the correct terminology for which, I am told, is ‘pond’ ~ which makes it a very big one!) This, incidentally, is the same tower depicted in various YouTube videos, on which victorious Russian troops hoist the Soviet flag high across the war-torn landscape which, in 1945, is all that remained of Königsberg ~ at least in its physical form.
Kaliningrad amber
Amber Museum, Kaliningrad, Russia
Established in the richest amber-producing area in the world, the Amber Museum holds impressive and ornate examples of artisan craftsmanship, and both the city and coastal resorts are dotted with specialist amber shops, supplemented by market stalls specialising in every conceivable manifestation of amber-work imaginable and in all its various hues ~ jewellery, souvenirs, framed pictures, clocks, statues, household goods … the list is seemingly endless.
Exotic amber jewellery, Kaliningrad, Russia
Opulent amber covered vase/urn, Kaliningrad, Russia
Coastal resorts of the Kaliningrad region
The largest coastal resorts, Svetlogorsk and Zelenogradsk,
are respectively a mere thirty and forty-five minutes away from Kaliningrad
city centre by car, train, taxi or bus. As both towns are extensively populated
with shops and stalls selling amber, and as the amount and range of goods for
sale is little short of amazing, amber hunters visiting these resorts can
combine their shopping expedition with a relaxing day by the sea.
Svetlogorsk (German: Rauschen) is a traditional
coastal spa resort nestled on an undulating headland, sprinkled with fir and
beech woods, in which quaint German houses of Hoffmanesque character peep out
from within small enclaves of trees.
High Gothic, Svetlogorsk, Russia
In recent years, renovation and large-scale investment has, like Kaliningrad, made this a place of contrasts and with it evoked controversy. Lavish and extravagant villas, high-rise buildings, even an entire street reconstructed in retrospective styles, have inevitably been precipitated by its growing popularity as a well-appointed, attractive coastal retreat.
Half-timbered reconstruction, Svetlogorsk, Russia
Following in the style of Rauschen (Svetlogorsk)
The, in my opinion, outsized multicomplex theatre and shopping centre, constructed in Svetlogorsk in 2015, seems to have been accepted, but there is decidedly less tolerance for what many see as a disproportionate extension to the seafront promenade, an enormous elevated walkway that has robbed Svetlogorsk of some of its little sandy beach and is destined to serve as the frontage for a parade of grand hotels and exclusive sea-view apartments. This notwithstanding, the older parts of Svetlogorsk are resolutely anchored by firm historical roots which, at the time of writing, continue to nurture the fairy tale.
Entertainment centre, Svetlogorsk, Russia
Zelenogradsk (German: Cranz) is by far the better option if sandy beaches are your thing. In German times, Cranz was considered to be the first resort and Rauschen the second, a position reversed in Soviet times and persisting to this day, but my prejudice is gradually moving in favour of Zelenogradsk. With its broad, golden swathe of beach, wide service-filled promenade, interesting beach-side cafes and restaurants offering unobstructed views of the sea, and its calm and easy serpentine high street containing many fine old buildings, some tastefully renovated others honestly gnarled and time-weathered, and not forgetting its awe-inspiring sunsets, a heavenly fusion of the sublime and surreal, Zelenogradsk for me is the perfect seaside retreat.
Zelinogradsk promenade, Russia
Zelinogradsk High Street, Russia
Zelinogradsk Hotel, Cranz Style
Lenin in Zelinogradsk
As stated previously, Svetlogorsk and Zelenogradsk are
the two main regional coastal resorts, but they are not the only ones along
this stretch of the Baltic coastline. Smaller and more secluded places await
the intrepid traveller!
Sandy beaches hidden away on Kaliningrad’s Baltic coatline
For nature lovers, and lovers of the great outdoors, the
Kaliningrad region’s jewel in the crown is indubitably Korski Spit (the
Curonian Spit) ~ a long (98km) narrow sand dune that arcs from the Kaliningrad region into south-west Lithuania,
with the Curonian Lagoon on one side and the Baltic Sea coast the other.
Carpeted with pine forest, and intricately laced with white sandy dips and
hollows, this Unesco World Heritage Site is a phenomenal natural landscape and a
natural habitat for a multitude of bird, animal and plant species. Wooden
pathways constructed by volunteers permit the traveller to enjoy the natural
beauty of the Curonian Spit whilst preserving the fragile ecosystem. It is
along one of these that you are invited to walk to the Dancing Forest ~ so
named because of the coiled and twisted nature of its trees. Visitors to the
Spit will find viewing platforms from which to appreciate the beauty of both
land and seascape, level cycle trails, and cafes tucked away in quiet little
woodland glades. As for guest houses in this protected part of the Kaliningrad
region, such are not prolific, although you may be lucky and find one in one of
the two small secluded settlements hidden away on the Spit.
Meanwhile, back in Kaliningrad, no reference to its
historic past would be complete without acknowledging the enduring presence of Königsberg
Cathedral. A mere husk after the war, sterling work, much effort, considerable
investment and skill has seen this fine specimen of 14th century
Gothic architecture restored to an unbelievable standard. In the daytime its unmistakable
profile hints at the glory of what once was; in the twilight its silhouette is
an eerie reminder of total war and the obliteration that still haunts this
city.
Kaliningrad: ‘City of Contrasts’
Kaliningrad: Victory Square
The label a ‘city of contrasts’ is as good as one as
any to try to hang on a place which is as enigmatic as it is ambiguous.
Modern-day Kaliningrad is vibrant and bustling ~ new apartment blocks,
expensive reconstructions cast in the mould of its Königsberg predecessors, an
eclectic array of bars, cafes, restaurants and clubs, brand-spanking
international hotel complexes rub shoulders with down-at-heel swathes of
Soviet-era concrete flats, all sharing the same physical and spiritual space as
the monuments to and memories of the ruins from which they have grown ~ Königsberg.
Original Königsberg building, Kaliningrad
Epilogue
When I began writing this article, I had envisaged a
succinct work of some 500 to 600 words. The fact that I have greatly exceeded
that is testament to the great variety of things to see and do here, within Kaliningrad
itself and its outlying region, and whilst I have deliberately focused on some
of the more prominent, more defining features unique to this special place, those
that I have not mentioned ~ of which there are many ~ less known, perhaps, but
equally deserving, are urging me to write about them and, more importantly, for
you to come and discover them for yourself.
Tour Guide/Accommodation
English-speaking visitors to this region are welcome
to contact us on email Königsbergmick@mail.com.
We provide a friendly, personal tour guide/interpreter service tailored to your
requirements. We also offer accommodation (maximum two people).
Note: Rumour has it that the Hotel Russ has not only closed but in 2021 was demolished to make way for a brand-spanking new development complex. I am glad that I had the chance to visit this iconic building before it was consigned to history! R.I.P. Russ!!!😪
Every year it’s the same: what are we going to do, where are we going to go on New Year’s Eve? I was in England over the Christmas period when my wife telephoned to discuss where we should see the New Year in. Such a question would have been unthinkable, and quite unnecessary, in Kaliningrad when we were younger, as there was always someone holding a party somewhere, but the years have taken their toll and most of our friends and associates, we included, have reached the age when raucous reverie no longer holds the attraction that it once did. To paraphrase the Ouse Valley Single Club’s record, ‘We’re not as young as we used to be’. However, life is full of surprises, and just when I was thinking that it would be a night in with my old Kenneth McKellar Hogmanay tapes, here’s my wife suggesting that we return to the Hotel Russ!
New Year’s Eve at the Hotel Russ
Now, it had
been almost 20 years ~ New Year’s Eve 2000-2001 to be precise ~ since we last
celebrated New Year at the Russ (see my diary entry on this blog, when I get
time to write it!), and when I divulged our decision to my brother, who had
been with us back in the day, all he could chortle was, “Oh, no! You’re joking!
Remember what it was like then. I bet it hasn’t changed!”
I wondered.
In my previous article on the Russ I had promised that we would return at some point in the future and review the Russ again, and as this occasion seemed as good a time as any, New Year’s Eve at the Russ it was.
Although Kaliningrad, where we live, is only 1000 rubles (about £11) by taxi away, we decided to make a short break of it, booking in for two nights. The New Year’s Eve party tariff was, approximately, £60 per person; the hotel tariff, £40 per night for a double room. For your 60 quid each person received a meal of 9 courses and a choice of two bottles from three options, which comprised wine, champagne and vodka. Fruit juice, in copious amounts, was thrown in and, of course, the fee included the cost of entertainment.
Not being
altogether sure what time the event started, we had arrived early at 8pm,
giving us time to patrol the Russ to spot the deliberate changes. We had
returned to the Russ on three or four occasions since our first visit in 2000,
not to stay there, but for a drink at the bar, so we were aware that the hotel
had changed hands a number of times and of the changes made under different
ownerships.
The ‘sun lounge’ extension to the dining room, for example, which had not been there on our first visit, had been instigated some several years ago and, naturally, the hotel’s interior decoration, paintwork and such, had passed through various stages of transformation. Nevertheless, in terms of construction and overall layout, alterations were few: the approach to reception and reception area itself was as good and as true as yesterday; the ship-shape bar area, the overhang of which was distinctly reminiscent of a 1920s’ ocean liner, was perfect in its preservation; the sweeping twist of the spiral staircase unmolested by time; the split-level pitch of the bar lounge unspoilt in all its high-ceiling glory; the square-section colonnade marching along the centre line as sturdy and impressive as the day I first set eyes on it. However, needless to say, there had been some changes.
Russ Bar 2000
Russ Bar 2020
As one of the photographs we took in the year 2000-2001 reveals, the original Russ bar had been a rather small affair, a little curved thing which would not have looked out of place (although they all did) in a 1970s’ British council house front room. Gone! This had been replaced by a big job: a long, solid, dark-wood structure, extending almost from one end of the room to the other, and better in proportion to it. Gone, too, were the drop-down cluster lights, the ceiling-hoisted tapestries and the curved low walls at the foot of the pillars with their water feature. The main lighting source, at least at the bar, consisted of three long rows of sunken downlighters; the low walls and water features had been replaced by width of space and the tapestries had, well, they had just gone somewhere.
In the lower level, the lighting was dimmed, especially for this occasion, and restrained to roving beams and three or four table lamps, these to cosy the atmosphere. I focus on lighting at this juncture because if I have any reservations about our evening at the Russ, it would have to be the lighting, that is the lighting in the bar area where our table was located. On the lower level, the lighting was just right; on the upper it was all wrong ~ far too bright. When we returned to the bar the following evening two of the three downlighter series had been turned off ~ then, but alas, too late, the lighting was near enough perfect.
It is not
possible to comment on any other difference within the ground-floor area,
except for a slight variation in the fireplace surround at the end of the lower
level, as this section had been set out with party in mind and to accommodate
as many guests as possible. In 2000-2001, the New Year’s celebrations had been
confined to the main dining room; then, the upper bar area had, presumably,
been left untouched, likewise with the lower level, which was then sprinkled
luxuriously with leather divans and armchairs.
On this New Year’s Eve, we did not immediately take our seats at the table we had reserved. Apart from the hotel staff, we were alone, and the empty legions of tables, hollow space devoid of human existence, background music ~ which only we could hear, echoing throughout the people-less places, roaming empty rooms and haunting lofty halls ~ put me in mind of scenes from The Shining ~ all we needed now was a heavy fall of snow!
Before the guests arrive
We purchased
a couple of drinks at the better, longer bar and took the same slim lift into
which we had squashed with Mincer and our Sausage back in 2000. We got out on
the second floor, although our room was on the third, simply because we wanted
to see if we could remember which room we had occupied, and which room had been
my brother’s 19 years’ ago.
Russ bar & staircase from the balcony
In this
quest we had marginal success, but this little bit of time travelling had
revealed that the railed centre of the broad corridor was no longer an open vista
to the ground floor and that even had we returned to carry out my brother’s
threat all those years ago, to hang underpants on the top of the Christmas
tree, the chance had passed us by. Possibly because our rooms had been bugged
back then and someone knew of our plan, the two gaps in the ceiling had been
effectively plugged, allowing subsequent management to turn the corridor below
into a multipurpose function room and, indeed, this was the very location for
the New Year’s entertainment tonight.
Fish & the billiard table
At the top
of the spiral staircase, on the veranda where the lift came out, the full-sized
billiard table, over which Mr Fish had cursed boredom and chucked pistachio
shells noisily into an ashtray whilst contemplating his prostitute of choice,
had vanished, replaced instead by lots of open space and around the perimeter
in part a combination of settees and armchairs in a sumptuous off-white fabric
into which one could gratefully sink to savour one’s choice of beverage whilst pondering
on the efficacy of yonder massage chair, with its various change of positions
and strategically thought-out vibrating parts.
We
discovered later, much to my nostalgic joy, that the famous billiard table had
not been given the heave-ho but merely relocated to the third floor.
The famous Mr Fish billiard table!
Our room at
the Russ
I am not altogether certain that the room we had booked had been described as a double or a room for two persons. Although, alas, there was no signs of rope bondage as there had been years ago, a practice, no doubt, that just did not catch on, the sleeping arrangements may have constituted two single beds artfully conjoined by the simple but effective use of a stretch-fitting base sheet.
Beds at the Hotel Russ
Whatever it was, the bed was comfortable, and the room, with its light wood trim, light sandy wall colouring and matching hard and soft furnishings was pleasant on the eye and on all the other senses. Good use had been made of compacting the space available and maximum storage capacity had been exacted in terms of wardrobe fittings and shelving. The shower room was, as they would have said in the 1920s, blissful, and was well equipped: it had a voluminous sink unit, large circular wall mirror, a profusion of hooks and racks, all the shampoos, conditioners, soaps and the like you could wish for, disposable tooth brushes with toothpaste included and a wall-mounted hair dryer, a nice touch eliminating the need to search for it amongst your shirts and smalls. Without question, however, the jewel in the crown had to be the walk-in shower room. Big enough to hold an orgy, this spacious facility with its mosaic floor was just the job for a good rinse down when, on returning from the beach, you might need to evict the sand from your toes.
Russ Balcony 2020
Another appealing feature of Russ bedrooms, at least the ones we have stayed in, is the balcony. Russ balconies are recessed into the broad sweep of the roof. They are as deep as they are wide, providing excellent suntraps in sequestered privacy.
Too cold to go nude on this occasion, even whilst wearing my cravat, we elected instead to return to reception, collect our belongings and prepare for the evening.
New Year’s Eve party at the Hotel Russ
Being a bit long in the tooth, we had chosen our table deliberately, putting a respectably less noisy distance between us and the entertainment hall. As I mentioned earlier, our only reservation was the lighting, which made us wish that we had booked a table in the more atmospheric lower level, but being close to the bar had its compensations ~ for example the attentive waiter, who could not have replenished our glasses quicker had he been beamed down specifically for that purpose.
Drinks
wise, I have no complaints; as for the food, well, I am not a foodie person, by
which I mean not one of those gluttons (or is it gourmets?) who vacillate from
orgasmic to anti-climactic dining experiences, eating at one restaurant whilst
comparing it with another, waxing lyrical on this gastronomical campaign whilst
deprecating that one and scoffing down one meal in the midst of planning their
next. As my old primary school teacher used to say, “There are those who live
to eat; and those who eat to live.” In my humble opinion, the Russ repast was
good. In quantity, there was too much for me; but I have no beef with the
quality. In fact, being non-carnivorous, I had no beef at all. This should at
least provide some reassurance to vegies who may have read elsewhere ~ and,
indeed, in my own articles on this blog ~ that vegetarian fare can be hard to
find in Russia.
My good
lady wife, who neither shares my predilection for non-meat fodder nor condones
my beans-on-toast palate, seemed well pleased with her meal(s). Had she not, I
am almost certain that she would have complained!
The Russ breakfast
I will say,
however, that breakfast the following morning was generous both with regard to
the variety of food on offer and in quantity. In respect of the latter, it
would have been impossible not to be, since food was served buffet style and,
if you wanted more, you simply helped yourself. There were different cheeses,
poached eggs, omelet squares, sausages, fish, potato wedges, small buns
containing meat, croissants, bread, fruit, yoghurts, a range of cereals, a
cavalcade of fruit juices and much more than my hangover-impaired memory can properly
recall. One delicacy was more indelible, however, and that was a traditional
Russian dish called ‘Herring Under Fur Coat’. Believe me, I kid you not.
‘Herring Under Fur Coat’
On the
quality of the entertainment this New Year’s Eve, I am not really qualified to
comment, as we spent most of our time at our table. We did watch and listen to
President Putin’s speech and raised a glass to Moscow’s New Year, which came in
one hour ahead of time than that of Kaliningrad’s, and raised a second toast at
the end of the Russian National Anthem, probably one of the longest but most
uplifting national anthems of all time. At Kaliningrad’s midnight, we joined
the throng in the entertainment hall, where champagne was being served in
preparation for the midnight hour, the countdown preluded by a New Year speech
by the Governor of Kaliningrad, Anton Alikhanov.
In the lift Olga had spoken to a man who had asked her if she was partying until 6am, the official closing time of the Russ party. When she replied in the negative, excusing us from this commitment due to our age, the grey-haired man replied, “I’m not as young as I used to be [now, where have I heard that before?] but I’m going to party anyway!”
Young and
old and in between, the Russ continued to rock until daybreak. Much was drunk;
but all was civilised!
In summary, our return to the Hotel Russ had been disappointing: the service was excellent, the staff extremely efficient and friendly, the bar well stocked, the food ~ like Trump ~ unimpeachable, the interior design architecturally fascinating, the hotel rooms clean, comfortable and well-equipped, and it was all that you wanted and all you could ask for. Although I did not have so much to laugh about as I did 19 years’ ago when last I stayed at the Russ, what the Russ had lost in slapstick comedy it had more than made up for in professionalism, atmosphere and a sense of bon ami.
At a time when hotels are popping up in Svetlogorsk like a bad rash, should you be looking for reclusive (ie away from the increasing hustle and bustle of the seafront) and exclusive accommodation, you would do much worse than opt for the Russ. From relatively humble but entrepreneurial beginnings, it has attained a level of maturity seldom encountered in the hospitality trade.
The Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia: a 4-Star Hotel with 6-Star Service!
Hotel Russ New Year’s Eve 2000
Hotel Russ New Year’s Eve 2020
Essential Details:
Russ Hotel Ulitsa Vereshchagina, 10 Svetlogorsk Kaliningrad Oblast, 238560
“… and
then, to top it all off, they passed the bill to me!” This was Joss recounting
his adventures the night before over breakfast, which was ~surprise, surprise ~
a Russian version of cold meats and cheeses.
“So,” I clarified,
“you all had plenty of food and the most expensive whisky and brandy and they
(his hosts) asked you to pay the bill?”
“No,” he
snorted, “They ordered what they wanted and then simply shoved the bill in my
direction. What could I do? I couldn’t say anything as I can’t speak the
lingo!”
“How about,
‘How much is a crash course in Russian?’”
There is something extremely satisfying about an inveterate bill dodger being caught out at his own game!
It had stopped
snowing, but the temperature had dropped. Some grit had been applied to the Russ
pathway but beyond that it was fairly treacherous underfoot. Across the road from the Russ the silver birch
woodland was as picturesque as one could wish for, the floor covered in a thick
bed of snow and the treetops artistically crystalised.
Joss Hart in the silver birch tree wood opposite the Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, year 2000. (Photo is blurred because of the quality of an old-world camera and a couple of hangovers.) Note the traditional Soviet hat!.
The walk into town took us on a route passed buildings of a most curious nature, each one different from the other. Immediately next to the Russ, on the same side of the road, there was another hotel, half-completed but with the front section, which was of concrete-block construction, yet windowless, over which a large crane hovered.
Svetlogorsk architecture
On the left
side of the road, there were three or four new-builds, the architectural style of
which varied immensely from building to building but all incorporating some or
mixed elements of Gothic, Baroque and
Neo-Classicism. The pastiche shouted conspicuous affluence, the contrasting
styles sitting uneasily with each other but rendered plausible thanks to their salutary
regard for the East Prussian influence from which they had sprung.
Grand house, Svetlogorsk, December 2000
On the right side of the road, the majority of houses were older and much more simple and humble. These were small one-storey buildings, possibly dating to the early 20th century, but with small windows in the gable end suggesting attic space above and most, if not all, having (shock and alarm in England!!) corrugated asbestos roofs. There was a shanty-town down-at-heel honesty about these dwellings, with their hotchpotch of wooden porches built on during the Soviet era and lean-tos in various states of semi-collapse. On the corner of this road, same side and opposite to an as of yet incomplete new-build with Gothic tower, stood a large, unseemly concrete and brick block of flats, each floor equipped with integral and continuous open balcony. It may have been the middle of winter, but this had not prevented someone from stringing up a line, from which their washing hung stiff and frozen in the rapidly descending temperature.
Acclimatised
to the never-ending sameness of British weather, where seasons meld into one, we
were intrigued to learn that today the temperature had dropped to -10 degrees.
The snow was very crisp under foot and treacherous ice patches kept us ever vigilant
in our quest to avoid one of those embarrassing arse-over-head experiences. As
we turned into the long road to the town, the pavement was the proverbial
accident waiting to happen.
New Russian House c.2000. No longer in existence c.2020??
This road contained few houses on the left; on the right there were some beautiful, genuine old houses, small, set back inside woodland groves. What houses there were on the left were extravagant in every sense ~ large, out of proportion with their neighbours, bristling with different-sized windows on every conceivable level and surrounded by high, black wrought-iron fences. These were the properties of New Rich Russians, a term which in those times was used pejoratively. I was to encounter this label often over the next few days, and it would be used in a tone that was as cold as the ambient temperature. It seemed to me that the inherent contempt was a hang-back to the Soviet-era’s emphasis on a level society in which any hierarchical structure, as defined by wealth or class, was frowned upon as being dangerously bourgeoisie, smacked of Capitalist individualism and was tainted by the trappings of conspicuous consumption.
Exploring Svetlogorsk ~ Commemorative Chapel
We continued to walk. This road was a long one, with no deviation. By and by we stopped beside a small clearing in which an unassuming white chapel set in grounds away from the road could be seen. This building had a sad and tragic history to it, as it marked the spot where a Soviet plane crashed into a school building back in 1972.
Mick Hart & Olga outside the Commemorative Chapel in Svetlogorsk , year 2000
Now on the
left, we were walking past a large open square which had what looked to be a
makeshift stage on one side and on the other the little café-bar which we had
frequented the night before. A few yards down from this we passed a couple more
historic Svetlogorsk houses, fronted by snow-filled gardens adjacent to the
road, and here we were in the centre of Svetlogorsk.
The centre
was basically a wider, more open area situated or build around a crossroads. On
our right there was a café-bar, across the road on our left a shop, on the
opposite side of the road in front of us a small, modern (glass and
steel-framed) snack bar and, on the opposite side of the road, a large, non-descript,
uniform municipal building.
Olga steered us off to the right, where we passed a glass-fronted restaurant. On the opposite side of the road stood two Prussian blocks of wooden-framed buildings, shutters on either sides of the windows and pretty carved fascia boards above, the latter festooned with rows and clusters of icicles.
We were now
heading towards the ‘front’, and to do this we would have to descend along a broad
pathway that snaked its way down the steep banks to the promenade. The wind
whipped across this section of coastline and, although buffered by the woodland
on either side of us and in spite of our extra layers of clothing, was
inhospitable enough to force us to take shelter in the nearest place dispensing
warmth, hot food and beverages.
At this
time, Svetlogorsk promenade was serviced by one café only (a far cry from
today!). According to my diary, what I liked best about this cafe was the coat
and hat-check facility. This was not something that we were used to in the
provincial part of England where we hailed from, and the elegant formality of
it seemed to belong to an altogether more refined and bygone era. My ‘second
first’ in this café was an introduction to the Russian menu. Unlike in England,
where the fare is typed on the front and
back of a piece of card, the average Russian menu was so extensive that it was
presented to you in the form of a large book, covered in simulated leather
~ a weighty tome, indeed, which would
not look out of place should Eamon Andrews be handing it to you (showing my age
again). Every page of this wonderful book was rammed with meaty delights,
cooked and served in every way imaginable; salivating stuff indeed if you happened
to be a carnivore, but if it so happened that you had renounced consumption of
animal flesh, as I had, then this great big book was woefully short of grub.
Englishmen & Vegetarians
At this
time vegetarianskee options were a long
way from catching on in Russia and, whilst most people in this western
extremity of the country no longer react with amazement when you reveal that
you do not eat meat, your strange preference is still met with a visible degree
of perplexity whether dining at someone’s house or eating out in café or
restaurant. On this occasion, long ago, Olga did manage to organise something
akin to borsch, the most traditional of Russian dishes, but very few places
other than this would be willing to make me borsch with the essential
ingredient, meat, excluded.
The next rift with tradition was trying to get a cup of tea with milk. The problem here was the inverse of meat: with meat dishes it was necessary to exclude, whilst with tea, it was all a matter of remembering to include. To this day, whenever we order tea (chi) in a café , restaurant or hotel, the milk is always forgotten, and it is not altogether unknown to be asked with a puzzled expression ‘skolka?’, how much?, and even then you can sometimes end up with a tumbler full.
Hurdles are there to be overcome, hoops are there to be jumped through and the cold outside was waiting for us. Wrapped up and back outside, we continued along the prom, our attention and progress arrested by the sight of a rather peculiar tower, rectangular of shape and clad entirely in large sheets of corrugated tin. This, Olga explained, was a lift shaft, the lift within ready to transport you to the elevated ground above, only today it was not working. That was a shame, I thought, as it looked well dodgy and dangerous. We also passed another means of aerial transport, this time in the form of small bucket-shaped cable cars, the wire on which they were suspended following the slope of the bank. A note in my 2000 diary refers to rust and a certain degree of lopsidedness, the implication being that I had been rather pleased to discover that these were not working either, even if it did mean walking up the steep incline. And very steep it was and very slippery.
Exploring Svetlogorsk ~ Bar No Toilet
Approximately
three-quarters of the way up this hill, the urge for a pint kicked in and when
it did we were fortunate enough to be a snowballs throw away from a neon sign
with ‘Bar’ written on it. The old-fashioned red neon tube was a sight for sore
eyes, frozen hands and almost unfeeling toes. From the outside this bar looked
exceptionally basic and the inside did not disappoint me: half-a-dozen round
tables with four plain chairs around each, a high, short counter, two beer
engines and an electric fire ~ my kind of place. Olga had a vodka and Joss and
I had two ice cold lagers ~ just the ticket for this sort of weather!
We must
have spent at least forty minutes in this humble but gratifying establishment,
during which we were watched by the bar staff as if we had just landed from
Pluto. We soon learnt that our presence in the Kaliningrad region was
singularly astonishing; we tended to be regarded somewhere between exotic and
alien, or exotic aliens, with an oscillating reaction which swung back and
forth from amused curiosity to highly suspicious caution. At first it was
unnerving, but, as we became accustomed to it and realised it was par for the
course, the attention we received appealed to our sense of the exciting and
comic. Besides, if we knew nothing else, we had armed ourselves with one very
important and versatile Russian phrase, which was Ya nee penymio (I
don’t understand).
This phrase came into its own when we enquired Gdye
toylete? And the answer came back, “We haven’t got one.” I had often used
this response when I was younger to guests who were visiting our family home;
their confusion was delightful. But now with the tables turned it did not seem
quite so funny. Further enquiry, with our legs crossed, revealed that although
they really did not have a toilet, patrons were welcome to use the toilet block
outside that belonged to an establishment on the opposite side of the street.
In normal circumstances, ie normal being when the steeply sloping road outside was not covered by a glacier, such an excursion may have been a considerably less arduous and adventurous undertaking, but even with my brother and I providing more than moral support to each other we ended up sliding this way and that in a helpless fit of the giggles. Fortunately, no accidents accrued, in any place where they might have done when one is dying for a pee whilst inadvertently ice skating, and having mastered this peculiarly Russian ritual, we downed another pint and headed back to the Russ where, ‘isn’t it obvious’, we had returned for a short respite and a snack before travelling into Kaliningrad for our first experience of Russian hospitality.
Whilst
preparing to move from England to Kaliningrad in December 2018, I was asked by
someone, was my reason for quitting the UK down to Brexit? ~ meaning, was I
leaving the UK as the UK was leaving Europe. “No,” I replied, “I’m leaving the
UK because the UK will never leave Europe.” Many a true word said in jest, as
they say.
Another 12
months passes, during which the lies, deceit, fear-mongering, treachery,
disloyalty, and numerous attempts to abandon democracy in the name of
Neo-Liberalism, would seem to bear out all I had predicted ~ for, in spite of
valiant and untiring attempts by Nigel Farage to extricate us from the insidious
tentacles of the EU experiment, it looked as if key figures in the British establishment,
aided and abetted by rich persons with no legacy-British background and a
biased judicial system, would stop at nothing to ensure that their socially
engineered Frankenstein would lumber on regardless.
Get Brexit
Done!
And then,
returning to England just before Christmas, on the 13 December 2019, something
marvelous, something quite extraordinary, something amazing happens: Just when
you thought it wasn’t safe to use the word democracy anymore in the UK, the
British electorate surprises everyone, including themselves, and prove to the
world that they are still capable of rational thought. In spite of all that has
been thrown at them by the Leftist media, the lies, the deceit, the propaganda,
instead of buckling to the war of attrition and voting, as politicians such as
Jo Swinson felt sure they would, for cancelling Brexit, they did just the
opposite, turning 13 December 2019 not into the travesty expected but in a
great day for democracy, the day that restored faith in the British people’s
ability to see beyond the smoke and mirrors and decide, resolutely, that they
wanted to take their country back. Not that the political class should have
been surprised; after all, Cameron and Co never for the life of them believed
that the British people would have the temerity to ditch the EU, but they did,
and now Boris Johnson, forced by his own party’s treachery as much as by
anything else to launch a General Election, is voted back into Number 10 to
finish the job he started, to ‘Get Brexit Done!’
Unable to
admit that this election was about one thing, and one thing only, Brexit, the Liberal-Left-
dominated media go gunning for poor old Corbyn. It’s all his fault, he ‘led
Labour into the abys’. Well, yes, but mainly because the majority of his party
were pushing to scupper Brexit, angling all the way for a second referendum
which would hopefully bring the result that they wanted rather than concede to
the one they did not.
Feeling
sorry for Corbyn? Then you should also feel sorry for Jo Swinson, leader of the
so-called Liberal Democrats. So convinced was she that the brainwashing of the British
people through month after month of Project Fear had worked, ie that Brexit was
going to inflict everything from a boil on your arse to a land heave in your
garden, that she gambled her entire career and the fortunes of her party on the
illiberal and undemocratic promise to ‘Cancel Brexit’ if she won. She lost.
Media predictions had been significant gains for her party.
One thing,
however, the Liberal-Left media did get right and that was their description of
Labour’s rowt as a political earthquake. It was so sudden, so severe and so
devastating that it shot off up North, making terrible destructive inroads into
Labour’s traditional heartland.
The Red Wall, Labour’s impregnable swathe of safe constituencies, the North-South divide which seemed as old as Hadrian’s Wall itself, crumbled; even worse (worse that is for Labour), seats that had been held by Labour since the inception of Labour itself had its long entrenched, complacent arses kicked well and truly out.
Democracy
returns to the UK
The
magnitude on the Left-Wing Richter scale was not immediately apparent to me,
but as I read the various reports, commentary and analysis I began to realise
just how devastating Boris’ victory had been for the Left. The media likened
its effect to the election of Margaret Thatcher, but in fact it was worse, much
worse. As one Leftist commentator wrote, Boris Johnson had in one fell-swoop
swept everything away that Tony Bair had built. But isn’t this what happens
when you botch something together without due regard for planning permission
and building regulations? The same commentator went on to lament that Boris
Johnson’s victory was the dawning of a new era in which ‘patriotism and
immigration’ will take precedence over economics. So, it is boo hoo for the
Neo-Liberal Globalists, but then someone should have told them that this is
what Brexit has all been about.
It was
Hitler’s Minister of Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels who famously said, that “If
you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to
believe it.” He should have added for the sake of the liars, ‘just don’t go
believing it yourselves!”.
In his new
and much empowered role, Boris Johnson has the golden opportunity to preside
over a new era, not a cliched new era but one that could really make a
difference. The good ship UK has lacked a firm hand at the helm for far too
long. For the past twenty years or more we’ve been drifting into the maelstrom,
carried by a pernicious subcurrent that has left us as a nation PC disoriented
and all but morally bankrupt. Naysayers believe, and can you really blame them,
that we are too far off course to find our way back; then the answer must lie
in going forward but with a significant change of direction. We have not always
been Not So Great Britain and our destiny does not have to be the Disunited
Kingdom.
Over the coming months the Liberal-Left will resort to their usual
illiberality. They will refuse to accept at all costs that the Brexit election
was a resounding rejection of their unprincipled mission to subvert and
substitute true democracy for their Trojan Horse version of it, and on the receiving
end, of course, it will be poor old Corbyn’s end.
Ironically, that well-known adage ‘Be Careful What You Wish For’ could not be more applicable. It was the Left that called for ‘The People’s Vote’. They got it. The people voted for Brexit. Now Boris has a clear and an unequivocal mandate ‘To Get the Job Done’ as promised.
The former Königsberg Stock Exchange, aka the Khudozhestvennaya Galereya, is home to a permanent exhibition, the title of which is The Shadow of Königsberg. It also holds temporary exhibitions on a regular basis. Two exhibitions attracted us recently, Alexander I and Napoleon Meeting on the Neman and Rhythms of Kaliningrad.
The Königsberg Stock Exchange (now the Khudozhestvennaya Galereya) is an impressive two-storey Neo-Renaissance-style building, which stands on the southern side of the Pregel River.
The grand building, which
opened in 1875, was the work of architect Heinrich Muller and Emil Hundrieser,
the latter to which is owed the external decoration, including the allegorical
figures at roof-top level and the two lions on either side of the entrance
steps.
As with most of Königsberg’s municipal buildings, the Stock Exchange suffered extensive damage when bombed by the RAF in 1944 and again during the Siege of Königsberg in 1945. It is believed that it narrowly escaped the systematic demolition programme of what remained of Königsberg after the war, as the new owners and powers that were ~ the Soviets ~ identified Russian Neo-Classical features in its construction (pphhhewww!). Since the building was reprieved, reinstated and reconstructed in 1967, it has passed through various transitions and is today one of Kaliningrad’s most important, and unequivocally, one of its most regal cultural centres [see the Tripadvisor website for photographs of this magnificent building].
Khudozhestvennaya Galereya
Napoleonic exhibition
The Khudozhestvennaya Galereya stages changing exhibitions on a regular
basis. The building can accommodate two or three exhibitions at any one time,
depending, of course, on the size, using dedicated and versatile screening
facilities. To the right of the entrance hall and on the second floor, space is
reserved for a permanent exhibition, The
Shadow of Königsberg, which traces the history of this unique city and
region through the turbulent transitions of its 20th century
history. Whether you are a professional historian, amateur historian, budding
history scholar or are simply fascinated by the changing fortunes and character
of Königsberg-Kaliningrad, The Shadow of Königsberg
provides a pictorial timeline of indelible significance through drawings,
sketches, paintings and photographs, supported by detailed models and
electronic simulation. Its depiction of pre-war Königsberg in contrast with its
post-war ruins and subsequent Soviet inheritance and legacy, that of life lived
for three decades among weed-strewn, crumbling buildings, a hollowed out shell
of a once noble city, has a pathos seldom encountered in the modern world we
inhabit today.
I really would like this poster …
Alexander I and Napoleon Meeting on the Neman
The exhibition, Alexander I and Napoleon Meeting on the
Neman [River], opened in the former Königsberg Stock Exchange building, now
a cultural centre, on 19 October 2019 and runs until 15 December 2019. The
exhibition is dedicated to one of the two Tilsit* Treaties, that which took
place on 7 July 1807 following Napoleon’s victory in Friedland. The treaty,
which was well-satirised in the British press of the time, examples of which
are included in the exhibition, is unforgettable not least because it took
place on a purpose-built raft anchored in the middle of the Neman River. But
its real importance was the ensuing impact it had on regional and world
geo-politics. The principal loser of the treaty was Prussia, which was forced
to surrender almost 50 percent of its territory. Russia and France achieved a
peaceful settlement, a settlement which not all Russian’s were agreeable to,
but the peace only lasted five years: in 1812 Napoleon returned to the Neman
River, crossing it this time with invasion in mind. Be this as it may, the treaty
inspired numerous artistic representations, both in Europe and Russia. And this
is what this exhibition is dedicated to.
The exhibition contains
about 60 exhibits from the collection of The State Hermitage Museum in St
Petersburg, including paintings, drawings and sculptures, as well as original
uniforms of Russian and French soldiers and is complemented by works
contributed by the Kaliningrad Museum of Fine Arts and Private Collections.
*Tilsit was renamed Sovetsk when the East Prussian region changed hands at the close of World War II. It is located in the Kaliningrad Oblast.
Rhythms of Kaliningrad
Exotic & Ornate & Highly Desirable!!
The Rhythms of Kaliningrad exhibition comprised an eclectic selection of art ~ paintings, sketches, drawings, sculptures ~ and even elaborate contributions from the Kaliningrad region’s world-renowned amber industry, examples of which included handmade jewellery of the most imaginative and exquisite calibre, highly detailed icons and an urn of Classical and Baroque form lavishly adorned. Designer clothing, handmade and avant-garde, added an unpredictable dimension to what was already an exotic and exhilarating showcase of regional artistic talent.
Taken as a collection, the thematic denominator subsumes the randomness of each subject into a distillation, and the compendium of impressions is a lyrical exposition that neither aggrandises nor underestimates the unique heritage, urban environment and natural images by which it is informed but rather acknowledges them and celebrates them as a compound expression of an esoteric experience. Sunsets across water, abstracts, natural landscapes, urban landscapes, pseudo-incarnations of Königsberg’s nobility ~ the castle and the city’s monuments ~ (none of which ever existed in the modern artist’s memory), Expressionism, Impressionism, Surrealism, Realism, Painterly and the rest, a gamut of artistic subjects and the styles through which they are brought into being vying to define, striving to encapsulate what it is about this place, this city and its territory, that draws you inexorably into its soul.
A personal reflection
Haunting painting of Konigsberg by Sherbak-Pyankova
In delivering the essence of the exhibition’s title, Rhythms of Kaliningrad, no one artwork should be singled out for being lesser or greater than the others in its company, but spectators and critics alike are fickle, prone, as we all are, to the common human failing for putting personal preference before impartiality, and thus although I would shy away from the impossible task of deciding which work of art was the best, whatever the given criteria, there was, inevitably, one among the paintings which resonated resoundingly with my not altogether impartial predilection for the sublime and metaphysical.
This painting was by the artist Sherbak-Pyankova. It was the study of a Königsberg house, a villa, set back in its own grounds, surrounded by its own garden, demarcated by iron railings with a wrought iron gate of unusual splendour.
Naturally, reliant on the theme of the exhibition, the subject matter in and of itself was not by any means a surprising leap into incongruity, but to narrow down the appeal criteria not to what had been painted but the way in which it had been painted ~ no, more, much more than this ~ the manner of its composition, its inherent composition and the intrinsic affect it had upon me, is how I would like to proceed.
In this
respect I have no inclination to classify the artist’s technique within a
particular school or style, because by doing so I would by default promote
taught technique above inspirational teaching and, ultimately, individual
creativity. My attraction to this piece of work was at once instantaneous ~ an
impulse, a reaction ~ the rationalisation that ensued, if indeed you can call
it this, being a process of thought, of mind.
When I first
examined the painting I was, as is the norm, standing relatively close to it.
The outlines of the house were distinct enough but the details, although present, impressed me with the notion that they were fading before my eyes. It was as though my view was partially obscured or obfuscated by a thin veil, or a light film, as though the building was slipping away from me. Suspecting the fault lay in my eyesight, I stepped back a few paces and took another look. From my new, more removed, position, unless I was mistaken, the subject on which I now gazed had developed a clarity hitherto unseen. Encouraged by this promising shift in perspective, I removed myself still further, at which greater distance the details became so clear that I could well have been standing outside the house itself, next to the ornate gate, not viewing it on canvas.
So now I began walking slowly back towards the picture and, as I did, I was relieved to discover that the suspicions about my eyesight were unfounded. With each step that I took the mist that had so impeded my vision from the moment I looked upon the picture was, by stealth and with steady degrees, returning.
I repeated
the exercise, just to make certain.
I was of the understanding that the further I removed myself from the Königsberg house the closer I came to it, or it to me; conversely, the closer I came to the house, the further away it became, until almost evaporating.
This
inversion of physics bemused as much as the metaphysics eluded, but then, with
a Eureka moment, Romanticism kicked in and the haze before the house, being the
haze behind my eyes, lifted in the subjective sunlight.
Of course,
the visibility of the house was so much better delineated from a distance. The distance
between myself and the house was not the insoluble distance of time that I had
first believed it to be, but in fact quite the reverse. The further I walked
away from the house the closer I came to Königsberg. Walking back was walking
back in time towards the point of origin. But when I approach the house, in an
attempt to go backwards, I walk back into the present, Königsberg slips from my
grasp and all that I am left with is the hazy, phantasmagorical image of
something I aspire to see, to experience in the physical world.
Konisberg street by Sherbak-Pyankova
This painting, and a second painting of a street in Königsberg-Kaliningrad by the same artist, got both my vote and my wife’s Olga’s before we knew anything about either the artist or her mentor. However, given the profound effect that her work had on us, it should not have surprised us to learn that the artist she had studied under, and had an enduring respect for, was a mutual friend ~ Victor Rybinin.
Victor had taught art for many years at the Kaliningrad Art School. He had, as he said, ‘grown up among the ruins of Königsberg’ and was ‘the product of two cultures’; he invested his entire life in the philosophical, artistic and historic exploration of the Königsberg-Kaliningrad continuum. As our artist and historian friend Stanislav Konovalov said, who had himself been taught by Victor, Victor’s artistic representations came from the heart, they are each and every one imbued with a symbolic mysticism, a profundity, a deep soulfulness which emanates from his appreciation of and unwavering love for Königsberg-Kaliningrad, always described by Victor, with characteristic understatement, as ‘this unique place’.
That none of Victor Rybinin’s art saw inclusion in the Rhythms of Kaliningrad exhibition is a sorrowful oversight, particularly since those who knew him and who know his art share the conviction that he was and will remain a principal figure in the city’s and its region’s cultural history ~ history being the final judge.
Romanticist
attribution or irony of fate? Either way it is an uncanny coincidence that we
should choose as favourite the painting which we chose today …
Our second cultural day in a row (yesterday we attended an unusual art exhibition) found us heading off for a guided tour around a flat that had belonged to a Königsberg merchant in the early 20th century. I had heard of this flat from our dear friend Victor Ryabinin ~ artist, philosopher, historian (sadly now deceased) ~ who had, as with all things Königsberg, stimulated my curiosity by informing us that the flat in question had been preserved, and restored where necessary, in all its original glory.
The flat we were going to visit today is located at
11-1 Krasnaya Street, Kaliningrad. The official name of the venue is simply but
effectively ‘Apartment Museum’. A century ago, it was the home of merchant and
grocery store owner, Gustav Grossmann, and his family. As the advertising
leaflet boldly and honestly claims, the authentic interior allows you to
‘travel back a hundred years’ and experience life ‘as a citizen of Eastern
Prussia’.
Public interest in and success of the project had prompted the exhibition owner to invest in a retro café on the site of Grossmann’s original store, which is located in the same building as the merchant’s flat, and it was here that we were rendezvousing with friend and Königsberg historian Stanislav Konovalov, known to us as Stas.
The café, which is housed in a corner section of the historic apartment building, extends from the main structure out towards the pavement. The entrance to Grossmann’s apartment is recessed, away from the pavement, a small flagstoned area leading to the front door, and can therefore be easily missed. However, the café signage does a wonderful job, calling your attention to a building of stature, which is distinctive and old-world gentrified thanks predominantly to the large show window on the ground floor and above it on the first and second floors the unusual arched windows.
The lower window has been fitted out with shelving and, even before we climbed the small flight of steps leading to the café entrance, it excited us to see a variety of bygone items beckoning us inside. The artefacts displayed included, but were not limited to, kitchen pans, clothes’ irons, ceramic pots, oil lamps and the stock in trade of antique emporiums in this part of the world, the ubiquitous German stein.
Gustav Grossmann Cafe, Kaliningrad
Anyone obsessed with the past could tell, from the demeanour of the building and the items displayed in the window, that you would not be disappointed when you stepped inside. The interior of the building has been subject to a complete and comprehensive retro makeover, with so much by way of antiques and collectables adorning shelves, festooned on the walls, cuddling in cabinets, swinging from the ceiling and dotted here and there that ~ as it is with the nature of such places ~ it was impossible at first glance and even ten minutes afterwards to take everything in. Certain features, however, made their mark and stayed there. Behind the front counter, for example ~ a long counter and one of impressive height ~ wall-to-ceiling shelving has been erected, and this shelving, consisting as it does of different sized compartments, the top section reserved for larger items such as a pair of antique radios, is occupied by a mixture of vintage and antique objects rubbing shoulders with the modern accoutrements that are vital for running a business like this, such as branded cups and saucers, selections of teas, different kinds of coffee varieties and so on. The café till, which may be modern, appears on the customer side of the counter as though it is made of wood, whilst the coffee machine, all made of shining chrome, is, in shape and appearance, an icon of the 1950s. Indeed, not everything in the café was what we English would call Edwardian or of early 20th century origin: the radio in the window, which has most likely been fitted with an electronic player, was post WWII, although the music it aired pre-dated it as late 1920s or 30s.
Window Seat, Apartment Museum, Kaliningrad
As with the interior décor no expense in detail had been spared with regard to the café’s furniture, all of which has a heritage background, from the open-sided armchair beside the counter to the two armchairs and circular salon table in front of the window. As these chairs were occupied by patrons, who were studiously observing an unwritten code of conduct, which is, or so it would seem, to adhere to a kind of library silence in the presence of the past, we took up temporary residence in the only seats available, Olga on a dining chair with a Rococo-style splat and myself on an interesting settle, which was comfortably upholstered and had, at either end, small fitted cabinets with carved, pierced fronts.
Partaking of tea in Apartment Museum Cafe ~ Königsberg
Tea was served in two dish-shaped china cups with matching saucers, backstamped Konig… . We could not make out the exact wording, but we felt certain that the proprietor of this establishment would not have trusted us with an original Königsberg tea service.
Vintage china tea cup, Gustav Grossmann Cafe, Königsberg
More or less observing the silence that everyone else was bound to, we drank our tea and continued our visual assessment, taking in the various enamel-fronted advertising signs that no antique-oriented premise should ever be without and recognising three wall-mounted cast-iron signs as tram destination plates, each bearing the number of a specific tram and the Königsberg districts which each tram had served. These distinctive and, I should imagine, highly sought-after Königsberg mementoes, which remembered the route that specific trams took, I had only seen once before and that was in the art studio of our late friend Victor Ryabinin.
Apartment Museum Cafe sells antiques
Alas, these plaques were not for sale, but some of the items were. There were three large wood and glass display cabinets containing all manner of small antique pieces ~ ceramics, tableware, relics from Königsberg ~ as well as some larger items, such as a silver-topped walking cane and a silk top hat, all of which could be purchased. Both Olga and I took an interest in the two-tier, Art Nouveau plant stand, which was slightly more unusual than the standard fare, but as the asking price was considerably higher than that which I would normally expect to pay for a similar piece in England, our interest remained just that.
We finished our tea and now that Stas had arrived and wanted a smoke, we joined the other interested parties who were waiting outside on the damp and chilly streets for the venue to open.
As 11am came and went Stas took the initiative to ring the doorbell. And seconds later the door was opened by a tall lady appropriately dressed Edwardian style, that is in a high-necked blouse and long woolen dress fastened and highlighted around the waist by an enamel-buckled cinch belt.
We were shown in to the communal hallway of the
building, a spacious entrance hall with a flight of six or seven steps to the
ground-floor landing, beyond which could be seen a rather imposing wooden railed
staircase.
The door to the time capsule we were about to enter was mid-brown wood, with long vertical paneling , the upper section letting in light through a series of small windows, the glass inside being of the wire-reinforced variety. Our little entourage filed one by one inside and as we passed ~ me gratefully ~ from the 21st century into the past, I pointed out the doorbell to Olga, which was housed in a metal plate wrought into a typical and prepossessing Art Nouveau design.
Art Nouveau doorbell, Apartment Museum, Kaliningrad
The corridor inside the flat was rather narrow and, indeed, we were soon to discover that this merchant’s flat was of no great proportion anywhere. Naturally, the space was made considerably less by the unusual volume of people that it now occupied, all at once milling and jostling as they tried to divest themselves of their outer winter garments to place in temporary storage within the deep, but not very wide, cloakroom reserved for this purpose.
Naturally, the initial impact of the transition from now to then, from new to old, would be better served with less people present, but ventures such as these need to be administered and maintained, and I would anticipate that the fee for a private viewing might prove cost-prohibitive. Nevertheless, I did find room to reflect on how reserved and dignified Mr Grossmann’s hallway was, with its black and white tiled floor, tall dark doors fitted with ornate and heavy brass handles and its wonderful bygone telephone, equipped with open cradle and sporting a large pair of bells.
Open-plan design
When we were all partially disrobed, so to speak, we were led into the living quarters, which was fundamentally one large room divided into two halves by the simple decorative effect of wooden vertical frames and pierced and moulded fretwork where the uprights meet the ceiling.
The door through which we had entered had taken us effectively into the living room/study. In the corner of the room, in front of the window, was a desk with shelves and drawers in all the usual places and with more incorporated in the elevated section of a glazed cabinet super structure. The desk held various interesting and curious pieces, including the first typewriter I had seen manufactured by Mercedes Benz. Next to the desk there was a large double-fronted glazed cabinet, containing many antique artefacts, and next to that a small sofa and copper-topped circular table.
This table was one for us. It had a built-in standard lamp, with a large bell-shaped fabric lampshade centred above it, c.1920s. Other objects of interest in this part of the room included a small, circular gramophone table complete with horn-type gramophone, a very nice carved and stuffed-over seat corner chair, used here as a desk chair, and various wall-hung paintings and antique ornaments.
Mr Grumpy (photograph withheld)
One thing that Olga had not forewarned me about was that Stas would be translating as the guide spoke, and Stas, in turn, had not been forewarned that Mr Grumpy was present. Mr Grumpy took umbrage at Stas’ mumblings in English, and even after Stas had explained his intent and purpose, Mr G could not quite permit himself the liberty of graciousness, turning every now and then to scowl at us, until eventually he slid away. At first I felt myself lean charitably in his direction, after all had not he paid for the tour like everyone else? ~ so why would he want to be distracted by Stas’ infernal utterances? But by and by I noticed that he was pretty much dissatisfied with everybody and everything. Perhaps his wife had dragged him there when he should have been in the bar? (If that had been the case, then it was perfectly understandable!)
Gustav Grossmann? No, Mick Hart at Gustav’s desk!
The guide’s talk continued for some time but the duration was necessary as we were not after all in the Palace of Versailles but in a very small, lower middle-class apartment, which, had the guide whipped us through, would have no doubt had Mr Grumpy demanding his entrance fee back!
Judging by the reaction of the rest of the group, with the omission of Mr Grumpy, the guide’s efforts appeared to meet with universal appreciation. Even with my sparse knowledge of Russian I could tell that she was a good speaker, instigating and maintaining interest and adding to it, from time to time, by drawing our attention to certain curious items, which she passed around for people to hold and examine, asking if anyone knew what they had been used for in their previous life. This technique was adopted throughout the tour, and, I am proud to say, I got most of the items right, except for a small pagoda-style, black-lacquered miniature house which, it transpired, had been a pet sanctuary for crickets, no less. As they say, and quite rightly so, you learn something new every day.
The second half of the room into which we had first been shown functioned as the dining area, the taper-legged table and simple but appealing early 20th century chairs occupying centre place. Behind the table, set against the wall, stood a typical Könisbergian lump of a sideboard. I do not mean to sound disparaging, since these heavy, massy pieces of furniture typically adorned with heraldic and armorial appliques and supported on chunky ball and claw feet or, as in this example, large lion pads, solicit the Gothic in me, but I fully understand that their dominating presence is not, as we English are wont to say, everyone’s cup of tea.
Apartment Museum magnificent fireplace/stove
In this instance, however, it was the fireplace that got the better. Here we had a typical German glazed-tile fire-come-boiler affair ~ a masonry heater ~ distinguished above any I had seen hitherto, with the possible exception of one very ornate example, which may or may not be original, which resides within a hotel bar on a picturesque stretch of the river a few kilometers from Königsberg.
The fireplace we were privy to today owed its impressive status to its two-tiered format, and the fact that the decorative tiling was taken up from floor to ceiling, the top being surmounted with a rather elaborate carved and scrolled finial.
The metal grate doors at the lower level of the boiler also expressed an Art Nouveau intricacy, the artistic quality of which I have not witnessed elsewhere in this region.
Overall, the furnished and decorative note struck in Mr Grossmann’s flat was a mellow and conservative one, possessing and conveying an unaffected dignity. Towards this consummation the doors, all of which exhibited the same uniformity of design, added not a little. In fact, they stamped an authority of social standing on the nature of this abode, their dark-wood, tall and sober character surmounted by a dignifying architectural gable pediment.
Crotchless bloomers
The next stop on the itinerary was the bedroom. It was not at all very spacious and the two wooden single beds pushed together to make a pseudo double bed allowed for nothing more than a cabinet and a dressing table. The most remarkable bygone in this room was the mannequin, or rather the female underwear in which it was dressed, of which the principal feature was the long pantaloons. These, our guide revealed, were split-crotched in the most significant manner, which, my wife concluded, explained why men in the early 20th century made such an eager audience when young ladies danced the can-can.
Apartment Museum guide, Kaliningrad
You see what I mean when I say, ‘you learn something
new every day’.
We could not all get into the confines of the bed chamber, so some of us were necessitated to undertake our viewing from the hall, along which we then walked, as instructed by our guide, to the kitchen.
Nowhere does bygone domestic life impress itself more contrastively than in the kitchen setting. The kitchen décor of our modern age and the implements we use therein would seem so thoroughly futuristic from an early 20th century point of view, and also more recently for those who lived in the 1940s, as to make them impossible to envision. In years gone by kitchen items were heavy, solid-state, screwed, riveted, mechanical; they were constructed from metal and glazed stoneware, cast and wrought iron, and they were obviously made to last, which is why they are still with us. A few people aspire when they behold kitchens of yester-year to recreate something similar in their own home as a retro statement, but few people ~ only those of the most stalwart nature with a near to obsessive love of obsolescent times ~ are willing to go the whole hog, completely renouncing smooth, easy-to-clean surfaces and modern, time-saving kitchen utensils [see Art Exhibition Kaliningrad] for their more quirky but difficult to use and maintain predecessors.
Early 20th century kitchen utensils
In Mr Grossmann’s flat, the kitchen was quite small. Too many cooks was certainly not an option. The kitchen stove, or range, ruled the visual roost, it was, after all, an indispensable piece of home-living equipment, in this case cast iron, the front beige and green-enamel tiled and the whole raised on sculpted, ornate cabriole legs.
Above the cooker there was a row of hooks containing various kitchen utensils and, on the wall, cream and white enamel back-plates with integral hooks on which hung various straining, stirring and other culinary implements. The back plates to these utensil holders are lovingly shaped and are much sought after today by discerning collectors and interior decorators. Enamel products were, of course, the kitchen equipment stalwarts of their day, and another nice example, one of which I had seen before in Victor Ryabinin’s studio, was a three-compartmentalised kitchen-cleaning substance holder, which included a slot for a product well-known in England, Persil, the name of which, along with others, is printed on the surface.
Slider-controlled enamel kitchen shopping list reminder, c1910-20
One item that I was not acquainted with was an early refrigerator. The appliance looked like a tall, square, solid wooden box, but when the lid was lifted the top section could be seen to contain a perforated metal basket. The cabinet space below held the provisions whilst the ice above cooled the interior. A simple mechanism indeed, but I suppose it must have worked.
The kitchen was large enough to accommodate a dresser,
with glazed cabinets to the upper middle section flanked by two enclosed
cabinets, in which an assortment of curious contraptions were displayed, and
the storage space offered by this piece of furniture was augmented by a small
larder in the corner of the room, containing a stimulating jamboree of bottles,
tins and jars, many with ageing contents.
The last room on the inventory was the toilet and bathroom, and this indispensable facility was to be found on the left just inside the door. You’ve just got to love a proper toilet, being one with a high-rise cistern with a chain and porcelain hand-pull, of German heritage of course.
Gustav Grossmann’s toilet requisites
Whether large country estate, stately home or a relatively small apartment such as this one, the question I always ask myself at the conclusion of my visit is not did it interest me but did it have the desired effect, namely during the time I spent there was I there at the time and in a different time at the same time? The answer in the case of Kaliningrad’s (Königsberg’s) Museum Apartment is Yes. Thank you Apartment Museum and thank you Mr Grossmann!
I’ll have that painting and, by the way, how much for the flat?
Saturday 9 November 2019
Today we were off to an art exhibition. Of the
exhibition I knew little or nothing, except that it would be different and was
by invitation only. Oksana, our neighbour, had invited
us, and the ‘different’ element made all the difference in that I was very
curious.
I had no idea what to expect, as, in Oksana’s car, we pulled into a cramped carpark opposite a new red-brick block of flats. A group of people were walking alongside the building to a gate and were directed back from whence they came ~ we followed.
On the opposite side of the building we were shown
into a narrow corridor. A woman, carrying a clipboard, appeared. The group, of
which we were a part, about 20 in total, lined up on either side of the
corridor, whilst the clipboard lady delivered a short introductory talk, about
which, of course, I understood nothing. Then we filed through the door and took
the lift to one of the floors above.
Modern Chic or Retro Chic?
The block of flats we were in was new and unfinished, but the corridors, at least on the floors we were occupying, appeared to be in quite an advanced stage of completion. Chunky white door surrounds and white walls dominated the décor. From a distance it appeared as if a series of thin slate-like slithers of different dimensions had been painstakingly inserted at various depths to give a naturalistic, uneven surface finish to the walls, but on closer inspection you could see, as with even the best toupées, where the join was. Cunningly, the complexity of construction had been made considerably easier by the slate pieces being mounted on, or integral to, brick blocks. As modern as this was supposed to be, I could not help feel that there was something rather retro about the whole ensemble, so much so that it would not have surprised me had Russian versions of John Steed and Emma Peel come sauntering out from one the flats.
Flats for sale, Kaliningrad
The flats themselves were at the stage known here as ‘grey
scale’. This is an apt description, which means that the walls and ceilings
have been plastered and skimmed but no finishing décor has been applied. There
were no internal doors as yet but the double-glazing was in, as were the rads.
The concept
explained
The concept of the art exhibition was an interesting
one. My wife explained it to me. A number of empty flats in the building had
been requisitioned to serve as exhibition halls. Each participating flat ether
contained the displayed work of one individual artist or, if the artist’s
contribution was less prolific, one room would be allocated. Thus, in some
flats you would find the work of one artist and in others the work of, say,
three artists, housed in separate rooms.
The concept worked surprisingly well. Since the walls
of the flats were grey-scale they provided the perfect neutral backdrop and as,
apart from the artwork, the only other items in the rooms were display units,
advertising brochures and the odd bottle of mineral water, distraction had been
obviated. Even the display modules were as basic as they could be ~ simple
unobtrusive plinths and the occasional wooden easel. As there were few wall
hooks in evidence, many of the exhibits were placed at ground level. This was
in hindsight one possible flaw, as arguably the works in question were not
shown at their best in this position.
The exhibition rooms not all being situated on one
floor meant that the viewing public had to hop into lifts and run up and down
stairs, and this alone added an interesting twist to what was already a novel
concept.
Among the contributing artists whom we liked best was the work of Yri Bulechev and a second artist who, to add intrigue to his work, wished to remain anonymous. We did learn that the anonymous artist was by profession an engineer, and this calling was demonstrated thematically throughout his art. The focus subject matter was portrait: strained, tense faces with worried, uncertain eyes, apprehensive, frightened even, contextualised within a claustrophobic grid, an invasive backdrop of lines, narrow rectangles and circles, which reminded me of the geometrical patterns that I used to draw as a nipper with the aid of my then trendy Spirograph set.
Modern consciousness
This background fretwork ramped up the element of
tension, especially since it invaded the human features, as if intermeshing the
frailty of the human condition with the modern world’s increasing connectivity,
the pressures that such a Brave New World inflicts and the hard-wired
engineering by which our lives are ruled and controlled. That my good lady wife
liked these paintings, indeed was drawn to them so much that she put in a bid
for two, was, given her penchant for the light, airy and positive, somewhat
surprising.
One painting she particularly liked was that of female
face. It was, in fact, half a female face, the portrait painted on the very
edge of the substrate with half of the image missing. Taught and compelling,
the one eye blue and bright reflected something like fear, and there again was that
all-pervasive geometrical static, smothering the backdrop and overlaying the
startled features. Interestingly enough ~ but remember the artist’s vocation ~
this art form had not been painted on board or canvas but brought to life and
into the world on a sheet of rusty iron.
Half way there
The industrial-look of this artist’s work was
indubitably enhanced by the stark, incomplete environment in which it was
displayed, a factor which also fed into the large picture of a Russian female
comedy actress, noted, I was told, for her happy-go-lucky and comical
typecasting, drawn or painted all in white, whilst the dark shadowy head and
face of Anthony Hopkins’ Hannibal Lecter (Silenceof the Lambs) looks predatorily over
her shoulder with a hunger in no way related to the baguette that the actress
is ready to eat.
As a long-time devotee of Leonard Cohen, Lord Byron
and Edgar Allan Poe, and being continually reminded by my wife that I am bleak
and melancholic, these pieces should have been right up my nightmare street
and, I have to confess, I enjoyed them, but on this occasion incongruously a
role reversal had taken place, with me feeling enthusiastic about a large
painting in contrasting pastel and vivid colours depicting two stylized lovers
floating in the luminous air somewhere between Heaven and Earth. Seldom have I
seen such a picture which radiates instant Karma ~ so soothing, idyllic, tranquil
and so ethereal in every sense. Until, that is, I discovered how much it cost. Brought
quickly down to earth again by the asking price of (ssshhhh!), I am yet
inclined to say that the painting is worth every ruble ~ it was only my wallet
holding me back!
Yri Bulechev composition, which would look very nice hanging above my bed!
Seldom have I seen such a picture which radiates instant Karma ~ so soothing, idyllic, tranquil and so ethereal in every sense.
Flat 10
During our wandering from room to room, I had had the
good fortune of being addressed by a very tall, very attractive young Russian
woman, dressed in red leather trousers and elevated on a pair of block high
heel shoes that seemed to be giving me vertigo.
She told me, among other things, that the best was yet
to come ~ wait until you get to apartment number 10, she said. Funny, but the
last two exhibit rooms before I got to number 10 are difficult to remember.
I am tempted to say that all I can recall about flat 10
was that it contained a massive king-size bed and a bath tub large enough for
four Donald Trumps, but, in reality, I can remember quite a lot more.
Flat 10 was a showcase flat. It had been given the
personalised designer treatment and as with all ~ or most ~ of the paintings
here on display was up for grabs if you wanted it. Indeed, I was told by the
interesting young lady who was talking to me in very good English that I could
buy it if I wanted to.
Flat 10 as illustrated on the cover of the art exhibition advertising leaflet
Well, did I?
The old adage that first impressions count may or may not be true, but it is as good a place to start as any. I may have been the only one amongst today’s privileged public to have made a mental note that the door design harked back to the Soviet era, in that access to the apartment (too grand to call it a flat) was governed by two doors in close proximity: first the traditional Russian heavy weight external door with its Fort Knox bolting system and then a more conventional door painted in non-conventional salmon pink. Beyond this curiosity, one walked into a tall, narrow corridor flanked by what appeared to be grey veneered paneling but which was, we discovered later, discreetly shuttered cabinet space. As one would expect from a modern designer flat, the accent was placed firmly on minimalist décor and maximalist space-exploitation. The floor-to-ceiling paneling, which was utilised again in the walkway between the master bedroom and bathroom, was as discreet as it was maximising, and this was because, as with the kitchen cabinets, all of the grey paneled doors had been built sans-handles. All one needed to do to access the space beyond was to touch lightly and the doors pop open. Nothing wrong with that, I thought, unless, of course, you have just woken up from a nightmare in which the world had been robbed of its handles.
If you have a fetish for handles, the flat had a place
for them. Indeed, as designer flats go, this one was very much built with a
place for everything and everything in its place. The wall directly opposite
the entrance has been thoughtfully provided with floor-to-ceiling box shelving
in a beech-veneered wood, the rectangular display units varying in size being
reminiscent of the modular concept. Space such as this could hold any number of
different sized handles and anything else for that matter.
Space optimisation at its best!
By turning left you were heading to the master
bedroom, which was located on the right, with the toilet and bathroom opposite.
First impressions again: the door with its angled lozenge panels. These I
liked. They were one of only two nods in this ultra-modern flat to the past and
to antiquity. As for the master bedroom, I was not quite sure whether it was
somewhat small or whether the bed was very large, but any risk of complete
claustrophobia was dispelled by the timely inclusion of a large glass window
that looked out into the covered balcony beyond.
The next stop, however, was the bathroom. I have
already referenced the bath tub. It was big. And so was the fixed shower rose
above it. As the musician and singer Judge Dread once said, ‘I haven’t see one
as big as that before’.
The toilet was round the corner in a separate place of
its own and here we were in for more surprises. No, it wasn’t a bucket; it was
as designer-modern as the rest of it. We were shown into the toilet cubicle in
the dark, but no matter as the inside of the pan was illuminated with little
blue lights and the seat popped up automatically. Really, there was no way that
you could not be impressed. I whispered to my entranced wife that such a toilet
as this was made for a hypochondriac such as me. I had reached the age where
ailments and hospital tests are more prevalent than hot dinners, and an
illuminated toilet bowl was an excellent idea for checking your stools.
My wife refrained from comment (a phenomenal moment in
itself), perhaps because she was already peering inside another room hidden
away behind more grey paneling. This was a narrow room, also accessible by the
paneling on the inside of the apartment door. It was here where you did your
washing and hung your clothes out to dry. On one side there were a couple of 21st
century washing machines and elevated above them an up-to-the-minute tumble
dryer; on the other, there were fitted wardrobes and shelves for your clothes. This
was so right. The very idea of hanging your socks, pants and sundries over the
edge of the balcony just would not work in a place like this.
Room with a view
We were on the balcony next. Make no mistake, this was no khrushchev flat. The balcony was completely self-contained, a great plate of double-glazed glass extending from the yellow-ridged floor to the dizzy heights of the ceiling. The wall had appropriately ~ given the artistic concept by which the event was defined ~ been fitted out with two large abstract paintings, whilst a handsome reproduction antique desk and swivel desk chair demonstrated how the space therein could be utilised as an additional ‘room’, in this case as an office. I liked this balcony. It was, as they say in British estate agents’ parlance, well-appointed, and I could honestly see myself sitting there typing away on an evening as I tried to resist supping beer in the nearby London Pub. I could not, however, see myself walking there ~ too much ~ as impressive as the modern floor structure was, like most modern floors today which are made of composite wood it tended to shift and creak. Not good if like the Sheik of Araby, you tend to creep about at night, and in a compact space-saving flat like this no one could blame you for feeling so inclined, particularly as this balcony contained an adjoining door to the guest room.
Balcony Flat 10
Although the guest room was rather small, containing a kind of settee bed, the strategic positioning of a slim vertical mirror opposite the balcony entrance and a wide mirror on the wall facing it, created the illusion of much more space than there was, particularly when the tall, Baroque-style door from bedroom to sitting area was left open.
Looking back at this door, from the sitting room to the guest bedroom, endorsed my earlier prejudice that the lozenge-shaped panels struck an essential and clever juxtaposition, the geometrical profile, although simple, being the perfect foil to handle-less cabinets and satin-smooth textures.
Sitting pretty … well, at least sitting on something pretty!
The sitting room and kitchen were, in essence, a double act. The sitting room determined by its flat wall-mounted TV screen and serpentine-shaped comfy settee and the kitchen starting, but partly concealed, behind a tall block screen. If anything did not work for me inside this flat it was the screen. It was dark-coloured and its height and breadth reminded me of the type of front desks that you feel belittled by in old Soviet-style hotels, such as Kaliningrad’s Moscow. Behind the front desk in this room, there were the kitchen work surfaces and state-of-the-art kitchen appliances and, immediately behind them, and soaring up behind them, a monolithic formation of touch-door operated fitted-kitchen cabinets. I am a beans-on-toast man myself, but even I could see that for kitchen aficionados there was nothing wanting in high-tech, or in ultra-swish, clean and easily cleanable where this kitchen was concerned.
As I gaze thoughtfully at the ceiling stencil in the Swish kitchen …
The one thing that I have omitted to mention so far is
the absence of a proper ceiling ~ by proper I mean traditional. In fact, there
is no ceiling, at least no plasterboard painted ceiling. Above your head in
this flat the concrete structure looks down on you in all its unexpurgated and
natural naked glory. I like it. It melds perfectly into the industrial and
steampunk ethos by which we live our modern lives, from train station to
airport, from café bar to attic revamp, it is the modern-day equivalent of the
nuts, bolts and rivets statement which defined the architecture of the
industrial revolution. That it has followed us into our homes should not surprise
us, but in this flat, just in case it did, the designers had taken the
decorative precaution of stenciling onto the overhead concrete an elaborate
sequence of scrolls, this constituting the second nod to antiquity, as the
distinctive outline and shell-like form is unmistakably related to the family Rococo.
For a man who has spent most of his life dodging
minimalism as if it were the plague, I have to confess that I was happily
engaged by what I had witnessed today and the way that it had affected me.
There is every possibility that I will never be able to look at a half-finished
flat again without thinking, ‘this needs artwork’ or ‘what I could do with this
space if only I had the creative vision of the designers of flat number 10’.
Essential Details:
KvartirnikExhibition
The
exhibition is a joint offline project of the ART SPACE Internet Gallery and
PEPA HOME STEGING, which prepares real estate for sale.
Project Organisers
Stepanyuk Natalya, Exhibition Curator & Artist (examples of her works exhibited)
Kiseleva Tatyana, Architect & Interior Designer
Contributing Artists Include:
Baeva,
Natalya
Elfimov,
George
Elfimova,
Lyudmila
Bulychev,
Yuri
el cartoon
Kiseleva,
Tatyana
Stepanyuk,
Natalya
Vernikovskaya,
Olga
Chepkasova,
Natalya
Elfimov,
Alexander Prokopyevich
Apartment Design
Tatyana Kiseleva, Architect (planning, interior design, furniture and all interior items)
Personalised Interior Design Project
Following consultation
with the architect, an individual planning solution is offered to any buyer of
any apartment in the building this article features.
