Estonian Art 2' 1999


	The Library, the Museum and the Fair pavilion: architectural policy just idling at a time of accelerating construction activity
	Triin Ojari



	Through the ages, architectural competitions have been the most fascinating part of architecture - sparkling ideas, new styles, with the winning project signifying decisive change - be it in architectural trends or in the political sphere. In the pre-war Republic of Estonia, the 1936 competition for the new Tallinn town hall attracted enormous attention. Public opinion actually swayed the jury's decision, awarding the prize to Edgar Johan Kuusik, who had gained remarkable popularity with his design adorned with little turrets and arches. His town hall never materialised; but for historians, this signified that modernism had fallen out of favour with the state. The same kind of socio-political preferences were noticeable later in the history of Estonian architectural competitions, in the winning projects of the late 1980s and early 1990s, and a new generation of neofunctionalists - šlo Peil, Emil Urbel, Andres Siim - at the time when the Soviet regime was about to collapse. Competition by these young architects, now members of Estonia's architectural Establishment, have paved the way to defining a new and distinctive 'good taste'. The latter is currently being cultivated by even such conservative architectural typologies as banks and residential construction. Another aspect of architectural competitions is that they provide a wonderful means of advertising - an essential module in the market economy survival course. Even today, the image of Künnapu & Padrik's architectural firm still relies heavily on almost winning, ten years ago, the grand world-wide contest for Los Angeles' West Coast Gateway (in 1988: they came a close second). Besides illustrating the latest trends and serving as publicity for the individual architect, the third subtext of the competitions is something known as 'equal opportunities for all', or a go-ahead given to young architects. For these, a house built on winning a competition might be their first opportunity to build anything at all.

	Taking a closer look at our own 1990s competitions, a kind of discrepancy can be observed: while there seem to be plenty of state competitions, boasting 'equal opportunities', in reality only an infinitesimal proportion ever reach the stage of actual building. Good architecture, resulting from a winning project of an open competition, is not prestigious in early capitalist Estonia. There are far more closed competitions, where specific firms are asked to participate; and joint undertakings by an architectural firm and a real-estate developer (considerably more powerful than the state, alas, in planning the contemporary Estonian city). The market demands calculated square metres, not architectural images of symbolic value. The list of those receiving awards clearly shows that the participants in contemporary competitions are almost all young architects; sometimes even students. The results, therefore, are never boring - nor always, however, quite mature. Prominent professionals take part in the above-mentioned closed competitions, and are extremely busy in their daily work - a great deal of building has been going on, at least until recently. The most frequent objects of the competitions have mainly been multifunctional small buildings and planning designs for the county towns. New construction in Tallinn and the designs of central squares have all been decided by a real estate developer or at a closed competition. The last major open competition was for the new art museum in Kadriorg, five years ago. Much to local annoyance, all the awards went to Finns.

	The current year's largest competition was for the new central library in Pärnu, a building of about 4000 square metres, right on the city's central square beside the theatre. Twenty-three projects were submitted, a not unusual number these days. First prize went to a project with the code name ZMH. Authors Markus Kaasik, Andres Ojari, Ilmar Valdur (3+1 architects) and Kalle Komissarov and Mihkel Tüür represent the youngest generation of architects currently active. Pärnu's central square is an excellent example of the love of chaos in town planning during the post-war Stalinist period. A bright neoclassicist communist city was planned to replace the ruins of the bombed city centre. Its central square was supposed to resemble world class squares like the Place de la Concorde, Paris, or Ostrovski Square in St.Petersburg. The huge and desolate main square of this small summer resort was surrounded by low, heavy, three-storey houses, and instead of the pompous municipal buildings which were to crown the whole set-up, a theatre was later erected, which took 10 years to build. Thus the square remained, half-finished and rather lethargic, until now. The proposed library will be located right on the square, in the hope of attracting more people and activity. The winning project fulfilled the jury's expectations primarily as a solution to a wider town plan: together with that particular building, the surrounding quarter and main square area were redesigned. Smaller dwelling houses are scattered around the library and other cultural buildings can be found in the small park in front of the theatre. The three-storey glass-and-concrete library is a fine example of modern architecture's contempt for form, with its architecture resulting from the construction process. Instead of a monumental architecture of symbols, attention is focused on functional and fascinating interior planning, on the non-hierarchical arrangement of space: the building as an object functioning in its environment. The result was that the town got a smart project and a good reason to excavate the remains of a mediaeval fortress on that site. But no funding has been provided for the building, despite its cultural significance, and no one has any idea of what will happen after the local elections in autumn...

	Another major competition - the Kaali Meteorite Museum in Saaremaa - differs from the Pärnu library primarily in its environmental aspect. Kaali lake, created when a meteorite crashed to earth there about 7500 years ago, is hardly known even among specialists - to say nothing of the wider public. The Americans would doubtless have created a cosmic Disneyland around such a unique natural phenomenon. Europeans, it was felt, ought to erect an international science and research centre. The latter idea appealed to the initiators of the Kaali museum, which is intended to have rooms for scientific research and lectures. Kaali itself is a tiny settlement, the largest building being the schoolhouse. Thus, above all, the jury here was expecting an attractive exterior: an image visible from the main road, which would symbolise the whole locality. The reflection of the distant Bilbao Guggenheim museum would perhaps be slightly incongruous here, but a certain imposing air inevitably accompanies the museum's architecture. Rasmus Reinolt's winning project 'Nostromo' embodied both a brisk acute-angled explosion of form, and optimal interior planning; he also used the widest variety of materials - timber, sheet metal, glass, a flagstone floor.

	The result: the project, initiated by a few enthusiastic geologists, completely lacks any kind of state support. The local budget could, at most, afford to pave the parking place in front of the museum... The only hope is to attract international interest. This summer's third competition was quite unusual, by Estonian standards, with an extraordinarily long history - the Estonian pavilion for EXPO 2000 at the Hannover World Fair. This is image creation at the state level: how to present yourself to the world. Many an exhibition pavilion has entered the history of modern architecture. Estonia presented its first pavilion in 1937, sharing with Latvia and Lithuania. The architect, though, was the Estonian Aleksander Nürnberg; his pavilion had a glass facade. An established place in Estonian architectural history belongs to the super-Stalinist Soviet Estonian pavilion at Moscow's 1954 Exhibition of Feats of National Economy (architects: H.Arman, A.Volberg, P.Tarvas). For this one-sixth of the planet, this was, after all, a 'world fair' of its own. As an independent country amongst other European countries, Estonia took its first steps quite resolutely - a competition was organised for the national pavilion at the 1992 Seville World Fair. Jüri Okas came first with his 36-metre steel and wire-netting deconstructionist tower. Due to typical mismanagement of the whole enterprise, the pavilion never materialised. At the 1996 Lisbon EXPO, the pavilion was rented and attention focused on the attractive language of images within the interior - Ando Keskküla's interactive video installation. Now, on the eve of the new millennium, there is another plan to present Estonia to the 'world'. Somewhat clumsy organisational efforts have brought about two consecutive competitions - one for the idea and the second for architecture. The first revealed the best images symbolising Estonia - true, these were known already before the competition - the astronomer Jaan Einasto's model of the world, natural swamp and turf, linen, music and metal art. The first prize was not awarded because nobody was entirely sure what to expect of the competition in the first place. The two second prizes were given to the projects Big Piece (architects Kristel Ausing and Andres Siim) and Millepiedi (architect Raivo Kotov and video artist Andrus Kõresaar). No sufficiently bright ideas, said the jury. The competition was too late (other countries were already building their pavilions!), and not properly prepared, said the architects. There's not enough money, said the government. It very much looks as if, once again, Estonia is not going to have its own pavilion. One requirement of the competition was the pavilion's cheapness and reusability, which strongly spoke in favour of Siim and Ausing's sheet metal container. Kotov and Kõresaar, in total disregard for expenses, built a metal and glass box, with gently swaying fir-trees on top, moved by an electric motor (the firs had to be replaced by plastic trees in the end!). Under the glass floor, there was a limestone 'cloud' rumbling just as rhythmically. Trees and stones were connected with cables; naturally the whole set-up could not do without a video programme of 'symbolic images'. The result: after another sitting, the jury chose the latter project, which would cost five times the agreed price. Epilogue: the government, set on a policy of economising, refused to provide the money. (The sum put up for the competition, needless to say, was too small to build anything at all).

	Many competitions but few resulting buildings is the sign of a poor country. Most disappointing is that, quite often, the competitions are not very well prepared, lacking fixed purpose and standard. The Architects' Association has never asked prominent foreign architects or experts in other areas to participate in the jury (except the Dane Henning Larsen, who chaired the jury at a privately-initiated competition for the new Hansapank building). As a rule, there is never enough money; the set conditions are rather vague and do not take into consideration the essence of the problem. Far more popular than open competitions are those which offer the cheapest deal, dictated by the builder - whoever offers the cheapest materials, labour force, and, indeed, architectural project. Even our beloved president Lennart Meri had to rely on cheap materials on his own beautiful plot, making use of prefabricated Swedish details. The result was a kind of cross between a vernacular barn and an American ranch-house. Wouldn't it have been lovely to have had a competition called 'A House for the President'? The result: in the light of our architectural policy so far, a president under the open sky!


	\| Estonian Art 2/99 (6) \| Published by the Estonian Institute 1999 \| ISSN 1406-5711 \| einst@einst.ee \| tel: (372) 631 43 55 \| fax: (372) 631 43 56 \|