Buildings

Parallel to my artistic expressions and explorations, I have always looked at the buildings we live in with a sense of confusion—why? How come? By "we," I mean my childhood, my schoolmates, my relatives, and so on. This perspective has always evoked contradictory feelings in me, and it still does today.

During my residency in Norway, I began focusing on this theme of living spaces. I continue to be interested in the places we live in as structures—particularly the many Soviet-era panel or brick apartment buildings built in Latvia, which linger in our reality like ghosts. Of course, these buildings have epic rhythms and graphic structures that stand out the most in winter, when the predominant colors are black and white.

These neighborhoods lack greenery, functional courtyard solutions, aesthetically pleasing small architectural forms, and objects that enhance well-being. Since childhood, I have observed the cracks in high-rise apartment buildings, in stairwells, and even inside apartments. I studied the peeling paint in stairwells, the stains left by leaking water from the roof, the bubbling and textured whitewash on walls and ceilings. I examined the layers of peeling paint in the polyclinic, where I had to sit for hours waiting to be seen.

I am amazed that my parents still live in the same apartment where I grew up, in a building that has hardly changed or been significantly improved in over 40 years. I know every crack and stain in that house. Sometimes I wonder how these buildings are still standing. The tile grout between the tiles has crumbled into dust and washed away, yet the tiles still cling to the walls. It is a miracle that the balconies still serve their function of growing summer flowers and remain in place, though they no longer feel entirely safe to stand on.