The neighbourhood was fairly new to me. I was passing by. New concrete and clean, thick glass walls make a nice background for walking. I might have taken a few rounds before I saw her, looking at me. There was no one else around or in general to see how wonderfully articulate of a liminal state she appeared being surrounded by dirt, leaves and cigarette butts. Or there was no one else just yet.
Her crafted presence struck me but it didn't take me long to realize she was a placeholder, put there to be replaced, so that the magnetic stream towards the passerby would never cease. In the way a model makes a five-euro H&M skirt look great, for a moment she distracted me from what was really special. What really interested me was the frame, the space, the room she was in. I knew I somehow had to own it until someone else noticed it.
To the audience, the opening of the boutique in 2007 must have felt like a relief. Atmosphere-matching, relaxed-yet-classy white linen pants fluttered in the draught from the four-lane car tunnel just around the corner. Metal watch bracelets went up and down the wrist section while straightened hair dyed blonde or deep brown with aubergine undertones, needlessly or not, was being fixed. "No, it's really lovely, I agree...". But what really crept the minds of the attendees was an agreeing shameless snake saying "Yessss...". Finally, you can head to the underground garage, then drive through the dull, shabby streets to arrive here these two tiny glossy streets that perfectly match your living-room palette, your inner world and your existential worth. Finally, here's the tolerable, smooth, uninterrupted, quality life-style you deserve.
It's then easy to imagine the disappointment and the shame crawling on the floor or up the belly when not only this particular boutique, but all the ones on that street got seized two years after their opening. It was the only high-end shopping area in the region. It takes longer for things to arrive in Eastern Europe (First Ikea in Vilnius opened in 2013). Just when you thought that one more attribute (a high-class shopping street) of a legit Western capitalist city has been attained, it's taken away from you. By a bankruptcy administrator.
I made quite some calls in 2014. Been told 'no' many times. Even when I promised that the images I was going to produce in the ceased space wouldn't reveal the name of the company or show it in an unflattering way (and I meant it), I was eventually told that the only interest the shareholders might have would be that of a commercial benefit. Shout-outs to the manager who was very polite and patient as we discussed the non-commercial benefits of the commercial sector's support for culture. But the decisions, I imagine, were made in the last two minutes of a ten-seat round-table meeting with a top-floor view and not by the representatives of the company's art department.
A year passed, I got funding and decided I should go back to that polite suggestion to rent the space. I was told the space had just been signed for long-term rental.
"But we're getting rid of all the equipment of the shop, would you be interested in taking something from there?"
"That's really nice of you, I'm coming over."
When I met the manager, he was 20 or maybe 30 years younger than I imagined, much slimmer, donning a Fred Perry jacket.
"Can I take this?", I pointed to a square-base, glossy metal stand.
"Yeah you can take that."
My head exploded as I imagined the body of work I could create with these objects, but I discretely said:
"I think I need to borrow a car."
"Ok, but you gotta come tomorrow, it's the last day, we're throwing things out."
I called all the busy people I knew had cars, had an arrangement. Also I called some other people, asking if they wanted a white couch, a beige carpet or a coffee table.
Next day I arrived with a massive car.
"So what would you like to take?"
"Maybe I'll start with the metal stand."
"Oh, no no we can't give you this one."
"I thought we talked about this one last time?"
"Oh, I meant that thing on the stand!"
I climbed over the rolled carpets and ladders and picked up a 7 centimeter plastic ring holder. "Oh, that's a shame. What about the carpets?" He smiled.
"Ok, so I'll take the poster."
He opened the light-box and took it out of the silver frame together with the plastic separation it was taped on. I knew the plastic belonged to the mounted light-box, but I didn't say it. I loaded the poster into a big empty blue pick-up truck and said something like "Don't ask, let's just go".
Vilnius, 2016
Her crafted presence struck me but it didn't take me long to realize she was a placeholder, put there to be replaced, so that the magnetic stream towards the passerby would never cease. In the way a model makes a five-euro H&M skirt look great, for a moment she distracted me from what was really special. What really interested me was the frame, the space, the room she was in. I knew I somehow had to own it until someone else noticed it.
To the audience, the opening of the boutique in 2007 must have felt like a relief. Atmosphere-matching, relaxed-yet-classy white linen pants fluttered in the draught from the four-lane car tunnel just around the corner. Metal watch bracelets went up and down the wrist section while straightened hair dyed blonde or deep brown with aubergine undertones, needlessly or not, was being fixed. "No, it's really lovely, I agree...". But what really crept the minds of the attendees was an agreeing shameless snake saying "Yessss...". Finally, you can head to the underground garage, then drive through the dull, shabby streets to arrive here these two tiny glossy streets that perfectly match your living-room palette, your inner world and your existential worth. Finally, here's the tolerable, smooth, uninterrupted, quality life-style you deserve.
It's then easy to imagine the disappointment and the shame crawling on the floor or up the belly when not only this particular boutique, but all the ones on that street got seized two years after their opening. It was the only high-end shopping area in the region. It takes longer for things to arrive in Eastern Europe (First Ikea in Vilnius opened in 2013). Just when you thought that one more attribute (a high-class shopping street) of a legit Western capitalist city has been attained, it's taken away from you. By a bankruptcy administrator.
I made quite some calls in 2014. Been told 'no' many times. Even when I promised that the images I was going to produce in the ceased space wouldn't reveal the name of the company or show it in an unflattering way (and I meant it), I was eventually told that the only interest the shareholders might have would be that of a commercial benefit. Shout-outs to the manager who was very polite and patient as we discussed the non-commercial benefits of the commercial sector's support for culture. But the decisions, I imagine, were made in the last two minutes of a ten-seat round-table meeting with a top-floor view and not by the representatives of the company's art department.
A year passed, I got funding and decided I should go back to that polite suggestion to rent the space. I was told the space had just been signed for long-term rental.
"But we're getting rid of all the equipment of the shop, would you be interested in taking something from there?"
"That's really nice of you, I'm coming over."
When I met the manager, he was 20 or maybe 30 years younger than I imagined, much slimmer, donning a Fred Perry jacket.
"Can I take this?", I pointed to a square-base, glossy metal stand.
"Yeah you can take that."
My head exploded as I imagined the body of work I could create with these objects, but I discretely said:
"I think I need to borrow a car."
"Ok, but you gotta come tomorrow, it's the last day, we're throwing things out."
I called all the busy people I knew had cars, had an arrangement. Also I called some other people, asking if they wanted a white couch, a beige carpet or a coffee table.
Next day I arrived with a massive car.
"So what would you like to take?"
"Maybe I'll start with the metal stand."
"Oh, no no we can't give you this one."
"I thought we talked about this one last time?"
"Oh, I meant that thing on the stand!"
I climbed over the rolled carpets and ladders and picked up a 7 centimeter plastic ring holder. "Oh, that's a shame. What about the carpets?" He smiled.
"Ok, so I'll take the poster."
He opened the light-box and took it out of the silver frame together with the plastic separation it was taped on. I knew the plastic belonged to the mounted light-box, but I didn't say it. I loaded the poster into a big empty blue pick-up truck and said something like "Don't ask, let's just go".
Vilnius, 2016
Photography and objects