AUDRYS KARALIUS: CAFÉS ARE THE MOST DEMOCRATIC STREET SPACES UNDER A ROOF

In 1984, Audrys Karalius graduated from Vilnius Engineering and Construction Institute, Faculty of Architecture. In 1984–1989, he worked as an architect at Kaunas City Construction and Design Institute; in 1989–1990, as a responsible secretary of the Lithuanian Architects’ Union, Kaunas Branch; in 1990-1991, as the chief architect of Kaunas City. In 1992, he started private architect’s practice.

Karalius is an author of articles on architecture and urbanism (founder and former editor-in-chief of monthly Arkitektas, later Statybų Pilotas), one of the organisers of events in Kaunas community of architects. Since 2000, he is the Lithuanian representative of the European Union Prize for Contemporary Architecture and an independent expert of Mies van der Rohe Fund.

Karalius: A street is a wider concept, including all public spaces, cafés and even stores. Galleries, exhibition centres and theatres are also public spaces.

Streets have no entrance fees! You are on the street, and if you want to get warm, you enter a café... Of course, if you do not order anything, the inquisitive waiters will annoy you, but [a café] is the most democratic public space under a roof. It is a very important thermometer of the city. You have probably noticed that: just visit several cafes in any city and you will feel its actual temperature.

Aurimė: I would like to focus on the Soviet period and discuss the culture of cafés at that time. Have you visited cafés then?

Karalius: No, I was spending time in trenches and drank straight from the bottle to avoid going to any café... Of course, I was going to cafés! But there were so little of them. Kaunas had its own charm, its own colour. Let's say, there were the elite ones, for the red bourgeoisie and other philistines, like, for example, Mūza which was in the Old Town, and now there is nothing at all in that place (in Kumelių Street, on the corner). There were the famous restaurants with variety shows: Žalias Kalnas (now IKI supermarket), or Trys Mergelės. I visited them “illegally”, because music has occupied a big part of my life and I have had a lot of friend musicians, and it was not possible for everyone to get there. For a simple person, the answer was: “Full”, and it meant that you had to give 10 roubles for the porter. This was a large amount: when I worked as an architect, I earned around 95 roubles. After arriving to Kaunas, my son was born, and daughter afterwards. A four-person family [to live on] 100 roubles! We had to be careful with our expenses.

I moved to Kaunas in 1984. Tulpė (Tulip) was then no longer as charming as it used to be (when opened in 1968). I could give you a [phone] number of this architect: he was my professor, and he could tell you so many legendary stories about this café. I came to Kaunas, when Kaunas was full of the withering legends of Tulpė only. They were only memories. I can tell one memory by professor Vytautas Dičius. He created Tulip with now-late Algimantas Mikėnas. So, it took place somewhere around 1970. They were naughty guys, prone to shenanigans, and the director of Tulip decided to pull a prank on them: when they came for lunch, instead of a broth, they served them vodka sprinkled with dill. It looked like broth! All staff was looking from around the corner how was this going to proceed. They exchanged glances with Mikėnas and ate this broth patiently. Later he remembers little: his screens went down. He only remembers standing in the window-cases (which were very modern) and acting as frozen mannequins.

I had to remodel the Orbita café, which is now Vilnius Bank. Only the entrance was from Laisvės Alėja and the entire corpus along Maironio Street. There was quite a large basement. Orbita was also by Dičius. Together with Vilius Adomavičius, we turned Orbita into a music club. One could say that it was the first such a democratic café in Kaunas. We created the entire interior, furniture. Used a lot of iron (it is possible that it was the first use of iron-steel of this kind in Lithuanian interiors). I created their own-brand and sign.

For a year, I also worked as an artist-typographer. Back then, interesting bands visited Orbita, like my friends from Estonia (there was this heavy metal band Metalist). No one played such music in Lithuania back then.  A lot of people visited Orbita: youth, people from the music world (all sorts of Pugachevas), a lot of them came from Russia. So, after our reconstruction, Orbita became very famous across the Soviet Union. I've heard that all Georgians arrived, because there was a variety show in Orbita (with half-naked women dancing), maybe because of that... But, of course, there were day-time meetings, lunch and things like that here as well.

For the daytime, we liked Desertinis Baras, now it is a café Jums or something like that.

Why did we go there? I cannot tell. In this case, I was only going with the flow, because this tradition [to go to Laumė] has already been established when I came to Kaunas, and I followed it. Many people used to go there, like Patackas and the like. It was more of a daytime bar for drinking coffee. Patackas drinks coffee for a living. When I go to work on foot before 8.00 AM, I see Patackas drinking coffee at 7.45 in the café of Kaunas Hotel. It is even better visible in summer, when he sits in the outside terrace, reads a paper and works. Well, and later, of course, he probably visits all the cafés. It may be his daily tradition.

I would mention Architektų Namai (House of Architects) as a phenomenon. My friend A. Stankevičius was invited to work as its director, even though he was then working in Alytus (but he wanted to come back to Kaunas, because he was from Kaunas). He was very active and united the collective. The name Antis (Duck) originated from the name of our band (now this place is a dump). Antis was opened in 1987. I started working as an architect in 1989. I was then working as the responsible secretary. Kaušpėdas moved to Vilnius, to [be] on the TV, and invited me to work instead of himself. We organised all sorts of events and concerts here: of rock bands and chamber music. We started such a whirlwind here that neither Kaunas nor Lithuania has seen before (and which no longer happens). There was a hall in the basement and auditorium on the first floor. The main concerts took place upstairs. There was a problem, because we did not have enough chairs for concerts downstairs. And had to run upstairs to bring them. There used to come around 150 [people]. They were very interesting. I don't speak about architects, but also artists, painters, actors, musicians and, well, other more peculiar people. One can say that it was the golden time. Within these three years from 1988 to 1990, I discovered in Kaunas everything that was worth discovering. Since then, I did not add many friends to my notebook. Arina used to sing and dance on the table barefoot. Many musicians used to return from rehearsals with their instruments and started playing them and improvising here on the spot. I remember Ilona Balsytė (who was then a member of Kernagis theatre, and later Keistuolių Theatre) told me that she could not believe what was happening here: she said that they do not have things like that in Vilnius. At Antis, we started hosting New Year's Eve celebrations and other events that were beyond the functions of the architect's department. We started celebrating the New Year around the 29th... and all artistic intellectuals of Kaunas used to come.

Aurimė: Can you say that these intellectuals were bohemians?

Karalius: Of course! And what is this bohemian life? No one asks who you are. Everyone knows one another from works. They don't know others, but, well, they are artsy. I like this term from Smetona times, artsy, which means that you are not necessarily an artist.

Aurimė: Did they have their own unique lifestyle?

Karalius: Of course! First of all, it was freedom. Dancing on the tables, self-expression, poetry recitals. Patackas and I, we had duels of poetry. He created poems on the spot: he adds a couple of verses, and then I do. Sometimes someone pitched us a theme, sometimes you started a greeting in verses, and the other one replied, and thus you got poems.

Let's say, there are 12 tables, with 2-3 people around them, and within 2 hours, these 12 tables form one large company. This did not happen anywhere else! Šniūras (brother of Mikšys, then piano player, now director of Opera and Ballet theatre) who died three of four years ago, was always present in these sorts of events. He did not paint much, maybe was not that successful, but he played at parties well. There were good dancers, like Egidijus Rudžinskas who performed solo numbers. Even now it is possible to provoke him, even though he seems calm. In poetry, there was no one to compare to me and Patackas. By the way, I won over him at Skliautas. One time, someone provoked me, and I recited quite a long poem. Oh, yes: some VMU students created a rather failed poetic performance, it was so boring that at the end of it, I stormed in, stood on the chair and continued the performance involving everyone who were sitting around. There were multicultural fusions: an architect recites poems, while a painter plays. These things aside, we discussed very relevant topics. New art collectives used to form, new projects were born.

Aurimė: Is it true that during the Soviet times, bohemian life was a way to rebel against the Soviet system?

Karalius: It depends on how rebelling is understood. What does it mean to rebel? One thing is to speak against the Soviet Union, criticise the government and analyse what is going on, and why it is shitty. In the meantime, we exchanged literature. There was this guy named Pilvinas, now diseased, who was a bookbinder working in book-binding workshop on Vilniaus Street. He used to bind all sorts of documents. At least I knew that he was binding all sorts of journals from Smetona times, literature of dissidents and other self-published works. This Pilvinas leaked such literature to us. Thanks to him, we got to read them a bit. It was the market that was hard to control.

We exchanged music. Navakas had all sorts of music, Kampas-Jankauskas [also] (he used to get drunk all the time and someone had to carry him on the back). Alcohol was a part of it, but [getting drunk] was not the purpose. I remember some nice poem by Vilija Norutienė (back then, she was Norutienė and worked in my office. And later she married Kaušpėdas and is the second Kaušpėdienė).

I am so happy that I got to live in this great community. And to have and know them all. It was such a bliss. Of course, with age, some competition sneaks in. Maybe older people are more prone to withdraw, communicate less, maybe they are too lazy to bring they ass from the couch in front of the TV. On the other hand, age comes with certain addictions, and an easy get-together is not enough. A person simply has too much and starts to avoid himself / herself. But we try to bring that former communication back. We have events at Galerija Urbana. There is this famous carpet... We call [such events] "On the Carpet". Not that long ago, we had Kaušpėdas himself on the carpet with his poetry book. Next Friday, we will open a wonderful exhibition by Andrius Griškevičius called Because. A magnificent artist. Now one can find here an exhibition of works painted by architects, etc. I started to engage in such activities, rally the colleagues and not only them. The audience is more diverse here. Anti-Soviet mood was unavoidable. Artists and other free-thinking people-intellectuals now are less intellectual... During the Soviet times, artists were more well-read, promoting their free thoughts, braver and when Sąjūdis was forming, it was happening here, on the first floor: it "came from the basement, climbed to the first floor" and happened.

Aurimė: What is the relationship between a café and culture: is culture brought to a café or is culture shaped by cafés?

Karalius: It is a very good question. And it can be answered in both ways. My reply would be... I was in Vilnius yesterday, to meet friends, about some music-related matters, we have such a musical project. There is a band Narope from Amsterdam, the Netherlands. And they sing in Lithuanian (you can find it on YouTube). Events like this usually take place in Dominikonų Street, next to Vilnius University.

Since I am a bookworm (I like books very much), I had an architectural book store that went out of business, because no know needs architectural books anymore. I was fascinated by the medium and how everything is going on in it. People themselves who work there radiate it. There are no hired people, no one to put instead of yourself, you stand there yourself. For example, here [in Galerija Urbana], there is a very big difference between a person behind the counter and me. Our tastes are different, attitudes also, I know that if I don't organise an event every two weeks, everything would go downhill. It would eventually become a restaurant like any other.

We have fought for a long time (three months), until we secured that normal music was playing here. We consciously rejected English, because it makes everything the same, as if it is designed to pick up foreigners. We enabled freedom. An Italian, Spanish word movido – wine, art, movement... It is a social movement. For example, you cannot say that a sportsman is doing movido, while things that happen in a café, bar or club is movido. In this case, it was very clear: we did the interior, concept, including the name, style and put the owner in some sort of frame. No Fashion TV, basketball, football and other crap. Setting some formats is also important, I think. Even these times, culture does not appear out of nothing. It is possible to notice, how some new bar, new place appears and what is going on there. All Vero Cafés have their segment of paper coffee drinkers from the 8th grade to the 2nd course. If I go there, everyone turns around, as if “the old fellow came to look here for his loose daughter”. The age-based segments become very clear.

My understanding is different. I had an illegal club, which is now our editor's office, at the corner of Birštono and Kurpių streets (now it's Viskio Baras). Back then, there was only a part of it restored. Every other Friday for almost four years, I organised a club that was possible to access only this way: you get my text, you are invited, if you don't, then you are not. This simple. And the rumour about it spread around Lithuania. People from other cities used to come as well: from Vilnius, Klaipėda. The principle was like this: everything is free of charge, but you have to bring something to the shared table. Some brought wine, others beer or whiskey... Each event had a host, who was also a DJ and played music. For example, the former rector of Tallinn University came here as well. He sometimes come to VMU as well. As a matter of fact, he started communication with VMU thanks to those evenings of mine. VMU had no contacts with him, knew nothing. There was also this Chmieliauskas, Alfredas (ISM Vice-Rector), Donskis (played guitar). And then I understood that age is not a format. It can be a format, only if you want to do it that way. My children back then were school students, they used to bring their friends as well. Half of the Jesuit Gymnasium used to come here. And Alfred Erich Senn hosted an evening.

It was a completely diverse audience. An elder painter or senior students from VMU or Art Academy wanted to access this club. I admire it very much. I have noticed that in Stockholm or Paris, it is completely normal to enter some café or a restaurant and see people over 70 sitting around the tables (what you will not see here) together with young people (maybe even minors). It's the thermometer of culture, which means that the city is tolerant. I don't speak about tolerance for gays and lesbians... But about tolerance towards one another's age, financial and social situation. Whether a banker with a costume can sit here with some sketchy guy with chequered shirt. This is the real tolerance.

Aurimė: And tolerance during the Soviet times?

Karalius: You should ask your parents or grandparents to tell about some stories from their everyday life, because you are probably born in these times, so it is hard for you to imagine.

There were never ever some factory directors sitting with us, no executives, no Soviet nomenclature, i.e. all sorts of directors from the executive committees, etc. They used to sit in their VIP, spots, as some sort of caricatures. In his sense, there could be no tolerance. Different classes did not meet. And if we speak about tolerance for gays, gays have not been invented then.

Aurimė: How we should define café culture?

Karalius: Our people are lost in terminology. Usually instead of calling it a canteen, they write “bar”, and that bar consists of three bottles and two metres of space. This is not a bar. You cannot get anything else at a bar, only something to drink. In the meantime, a café (or a confectionery) is a place dominated by coffee, brandy and cakes. A restaurant is a restaurant. Here you can get hot food and eat it. The owners do not even know how to call them, they do not know what they do. This is my lifestyle. I have designed a lot and I am interested in the culture of [cafés and bars]. The word movida has become a term to simply define the culture of public spaces, where alcohol is consumed, music is played, and people dance, this is movida. But if I go to an exhibition, it is not movida. In normal and stable countries, without the Soviet government that messed everything up, these things have their names. For example, in Japan, izakaya is actually izakaya. It is a café, where people come to have breakfast or a light dinner. That's it. No one sits there and drink, and if they want to drink, they go to a bar. Just like we go to a bathroom to wash ourselves, rather than doing it in the kitchen. So, places like that have their signs. Some time ago, we spoke with Donskis about the musical terrorism (later this phrase was picked up), when you come to a café to simply have lunch and are forced to listen to the blunt rhythm blasting in your ears. I proved him that music is the best face control: you play certain music, and a certain audience comes. There is Kultūros Barai journal lying behind me, and it is immediately a sign that this place is for you. Maybe another person will turn away at the doorstep and go back. These signs must exist.

Aurimė: So, it means that cafés create specific meanings?

Karalius: It can be passive or active. A café can be a room, where a bottle is opened. There are plenty of spaces like that in the world. They simple exist, that's it. However, there are cafés that participate actively in the environment of the city. And not all cafés must become home for culture.

Aurimė: And what was consumption like during the Soviet times?

Karalius: There was nothing. What can you consume if there is nothing to consume? There was a deficit of everything.

Aurimė: So, what determined the visits to cafés during the Soviet times? There were enormous queues in the evenings to get to places like Tulpė.

Karalius: It was not a café. More like a club. There were so few of them, so that's why there were queues in front of them. You could get to Žalias Kalnas only with a bribe. There were also queues to get to Orbita.

Aurimė: Why did people go to cafés then? Simply to spend time?

Karalius: People have to meet somewhere. If we counted all cafés and canteens (and canteens were not open in the evening) in Kaunas, the number of cafés around all Kaunas was 7-10 times lower than it is now. A person who is a social creature, wants to go out, meet someone, rather than sit at home. It sounds absurd but during the Soviet times, there was no coffee to buy, so if you wanted coffee, you had to go to a café. It is not consumption. Maybe during the Soviet times, you could feel the social nature of cafés: people used to go there to socialise. Since there were so little of them, the queues were so long. During the Soviet times, there was this line and if you approach it from the side of the client, you were nothing. And if you come from another side, from the back door, you basically get everything free of charge. There was a large difference. Now it is different to understand it. My father collected coupons that were issued during the Soviet times to get goods. One time, I showed them to my children (29- and 27-year-olds). I thought that they will die from laughter. For example, a coupon for a towel or for cotton tricot articles. It was horrible... Some union's chairman was distributing them: “you have already got two t-shirts and two panties last month, so that's it, you will get an iron earliest next year.” When we purchased a washing machine Riga, we did not need it, because there was no place for us to put it, but we purchased it, because we got a coupon. And a coupon was like a Nobel Prize, because you will not get it until the next year. That machine had spent its time standing in a box...

Interview conducted by young researcher Aurimė Rinkevičiūtė.