“If you didn't agree to do it, they would either kill you or send you to Siberia.”

Lithuanian sculptors chronicle the times through the Soviet era to today. 

By Adam B. Ellick
 



Famed Lithuanian sculptor Dr. Konstantinas Bogdanas sits in his tiny Vilnius studio surrounded by dozens of his sensitive portraits. In the far right corner is Lithuanian President Valdas Adamkus, while rock legend Frank Zappa stares from the left. But the subject that made Bogdanas best known, Soviet leader Vladimir Lenin, is noticeably absent from the cluttered display. The 75-year-old artist, however, insists it’s nothing more than limited space, as opposed to guilt-ridden shame.
       Bogdanas (photo) has often reflected on his artistic duties during communism, especially since 2000, when Lithuania became the site of the world’s first Soviet Sculpture Park, a heavily-pinned forest in the south where more than 60 statues of former communist leaders and partisans rest peacefully. Grutas Park’s inception sparked a bitter debate that divided this nation: to save the statues in the form of a history lesson, or let the evil leaders rot in junkyards, as was the case since 1991. 
       The park, also dubbed Stalin World, serves as an eerie reminder of a regime that most Lithuanians would rather forget. But for Lithuanian sculptors like Bogdanas it is nothing more than a museum of social realist sculpture—an art era tarnished by political censorship but nonetheless worthy of preservation.
       “You can’t reject those past 50 years because intelligent people made art and it’s still art, whatever its flaws are,” says Bogdanas, who in more recent years also sculpted a Vilnius city center bust of rock iconoclast Zappa. (See Sights in the Vilnius tourist section for details about the Zappa monument.)
       “It’s not the ideology that matters, it’s the art,” says veteran Lithuanian sculptor Bronius Vysniauskas. “These statues received awards and they were later standing in warehouses.” 
       Back in his studio, Bogdanas, is asked one simple question: how many Lenins have you made? He waves his arms and chuckles, “many, many” says the thinly bearded man. He lived comfortably during communism solely because he played the political game. After studying at the Imperial Russian Art Academy in Leningrad, he served as the president of the Sculpture Council for 10 years, and spent eight years in the communist parliament. At age 60 he was awarded the highest honor, a Lenin Medal.
       “You need to live under the Russian occupation to understand what it’s like. My art colleagues from other nations asked me why I did these works. If you didn’t agree to do it, they would either kill you or send you to Siberia. Naturally the entire culture was declared as a tool for propaganda. If you wanted to do something for yourself, art for yourself, you had to also give a tribute to the ideology. People should be humanistic and forgive those who sometimes created works that were against their real values.”
       Or in the words of the fiery Vysniauskas, “Why they hell would anyone make those works on their own? We were ordered.”

For most of the 20th century Lithuanian sculpture was dominated by politics. Following the Russian Revolution in 1917 the Soviet art school was considered avant-garde and one of the world's elite. But that changed in 1932 when Soviet writers seemed social-realism, “social on the inside and realistic on the outside,” the most effective style for controlling the public. 
       Across the U.S.S.R. social-realism stood as the sole artistic option in the first decade after World War II until Stalin's death in 1953. During this period—the strictest under communism—mass deportations were at a maximum. In turn, artists complied with State demands and produced in a naturalist, academic style. They wouldn't dare to even dream of abstract art.
       Their break came at a 1956 communist party meeting, when Nikita Khrushchev apologized for Stalin's brutality. A suddenly looser government permitted artists to adapt more creativity, and an impressionist element hit the Lithuanian sculpting scene. While Russian sculptors remained loyal realists, Lithuanian sculptors began receiving noted recognition for their progressive adaptations.
       “Sculpture during this time was the strongest part of art in the Baltics. We were the best ones. Lithuanians just had the blood for sculpting,” says Vysniauskas.
By 1970, Lithuanian sculpture incorporated dozes of modern art elements such as expressionism and fauvism; although still in the realist realm, Lithuanian art was less detail-conscious. Artists, including poets and writers, could finally personalize their craft without fearing Siberia.
       Still, during virtually all of communism, Moscow maintained strict order over the Lithuanian Culture Ministry’s Sculpture Council. Only proven artists and loyal communists, for instance, would receive the supposedly high honor of creating a Lenin statue. 
       “The most important thing is that there was no artistic freedom. Even a conversation like this would end up with who would be the first to go,” said Bogdanas.
       Between sips of his homemade alcohol that tastes like cough syrup, Bogdanas says all works were heavily censored during communism, but the entire Council meticulously inspected important orders. 
       He recalls one statue that nearly sent him to Siberia. He fulfilled a secret assignment from a church and before mounting the bust, he placed a religious note inside—an illegal act in itself. Someone found the note, which prompted a KGB investigation. The church’s priest was questioned, but he refused to tell authorities that the distinguished Bogdanas was responsible for the letter. The result: the priest was sent to Siberia and Bogdanas never saw him again.
       Bogdanas’ most famous statue at Grutas Park portrays Lenin and Vincas Kapsukas, leader of Lithuanian Communist Party (photo). In 1979 the historic Vilnius University, the oldest in the entire U.S.S.R., awaited its 400th anniversary. The Soviets, less than anxious to tout the longevity of a non-Russian institution, didn’t plan a celebration. When the Lithuanian delegation went to Moscow to ask how to handle the anniversary, Moscow officials—furthering their agenda—decided to unveil a sculpture of Lenin and Kapsukas, to represent the brotherhood of the republics.
       Bogdanas tells the story: “There were debates going on because the problem was both men were short but Lenin was ideologically higher. We had to solve this problem. The sculpture shows Lenin a little bit taller, and Kapsukas is more modest and asking for advice. It was a very typical order. I don’t think it’s a good piece of art. There is no beauty. It’s just another ordered work for me. It was done quickly in two months. As soon as the government found out such a political aspect was given to the sculpture, the celebration was permitted and it was beautiful.”
       That statue was beheaded after impassioned nationalistic protests in 1991. Such was the case with many communism-themed works immediately following independence. Some were completely destroyed with blow torches and dynamite. But others, like the monument of Lenin and Kapsukas, were saved. Grutas Park owner Viliumas Malinauskas financed repairs for many of the statues, which were in poor condition following fierce protests and years of abandonment. A handful of works still bear scars from the uprisings, including blue and red paint, and an occasional fissure or dent. 
       During communism, a city’s population virtually always dictated the size of its Lenin statue, with larger cities receiving larger Lenins. The park exhibits Lenins from Lithuania’s three largest cities, plus many small town works. 
       “The most important thing about the park isn't to let these statues disappear. The park has saved 50 years of our sculpture school,” he says proudly. 

For more information about the Grutas Park see Stalin World on this site.

Photos courtesy of Adam Ellick.
                                                         —CITY PAPER-The Baltic States