How Lithuania dealt with its Soviet statues

By T.A.

JOSEF STALIN stands in military dress, his hand tucked inside the breast of his coat. Vladimir Lenin sits—relaxed, cross-legged—with a book. Elsewhere, he extends his arm, mimicking the pose he adopted when he arrived in Russia in 1917 to seize power. Grutas Park, a sculpture garden in south-west Lithuania, is the home of 86 such relics of the Soviet era. Established by Viliumas Malinauskas, a mushroom magnate, the park has been their woodland home since 2001.

In 1990, when Lithuania declared its independence from the Soviet Union, citizens pulled down statues of leaders and prominent communist figures. In the heated political moment there was little thought for what to do with them subsequently (as seems to be the case in many of the American cities that have removed their Confederate monuments). After a debate in Lithuania’s parliament, the statues were removed and placed into storage.

In Grutas Park, they have been sited thoughtfully across 20 hectares of forest. The figures are grouped according to their role in Soviet activity: the Totalitarian Sphere depicts key thinkers and prominent leaders; the Red Sphere features members of the resistance; the Death sphere shows the bloody means by which the regimes were kept in place. Indeed, the park allows the spectre of suffering to loom in the background by recreating gulag blocks, guard towers and barbed-wire fences. Though in a new leafy context, the figures are not isolated from the history in which they played a part.

Many of these statues have clear artistic merit. The detail is remarkable; the expression of defiance on the faces of four young revolutionaries is particularly well-observed. Even less figurative works, such as a mosaic of communist youths at play, are intricate. The park often invites us to consider these historical figures and poke fun at them, but it does not preclude the fact that these statues are complex works of art.

One of the sculptors whose work is included is the late Konstantinos Bogdanas. He had refused to disassociate himself from what he called his “ideological work”, but was still held in regard in independent Lithuania because he had also sculpted heroes of the country’s resistance. He pointed out that, like all Lithuanians, he had to survive. “Many great statues were made for Nero and he was a tyrant.”

As a result, Bogdanas was magnanimous about Grutas Park, noting that “the work in the park is actually the best sculpture from that time.” Despite some concerns about the entrance fee and some of its more kitsch elements, he felt the park was a noble venture. “Until recently these statues stood in the streets of our cities. They should be seen by young people who currently don’t know anything about the Soviet era,” he said.

This new context works because it blunts the statues’ force. They are far removed from sites of political power—demonstrating the lack of esteem with which their ideas are now held—and they become increasingly mossy and dirty over time. The forest itself was once home to the Lithuanian resistance; now that the statues are contained within its boundaries, the Soviet system is symbolically circumscribed.

Of course, it is not without its controversies; many Lithuanians still consider Grutas Park to be in poor taste. Some politicians protested in parliament not long after it was established in 2001. To be sure, the park’s other attractions—such as “Soviet Day”, when actors perform scenes from Lenin’s life, and the communist-kitsch gift shop—tread an uncertain line. The park originally proposed to transport visitors in railway cattle-cars, a mock-up of those used to transport prisoners to Siberia. That idea, thankfully, was abandoned.

But Grutas Park remains an interesting example of how statues can be recontextualised. As countries grapple with their unsavoury pasts and consider the rightful place of their controversial monuments, the park offers an alternative model to museums or destruction.