When Canadian philosopher Aaron James Wendland moved to Tallinn, he hoped to find a home that felt distinctly Estonian; instead, he found IKEA-fied interiors, discarded Soviet furniture and a heated debate about whether beauty can be separated from political pain.
As a Canadian, I have the option of living in approximately 1.3 million modern apartments in my hometown, Toronto. So, when I moved to Tallinn in January to be closer to family, I hoped to find a unique form of Estonian housing. Or at least, I was looking for an Estonian home that would break up the monotony of modern Canadian living. I figured a classic wooden house in Kalamaja or a Soviet-era apartment in the centre of Tallinn would do the trick.
Unfortunately, I was shocked and somewhat horrified by what I discovered when I began my Estonian housing search in earnest. The classic wooden houses in Kalamaja were often incredibly beautiful on the outside. But on the inside, every home I visited in Tallinn’s historic fishing village had been completely renovated with the same floors, counters, cabinets and furnishings found in glass-and-steel condos all across Toronto.
Similarly, the Soviet-era apartments (in Estonia, “Soviet era” refers to the Soviet occupation of 1940–1941 and 1944–1991) in the centre of Tallinn had wonderfully high ceilings, expansive windows and massive radiators to keep you warm during the coldest of winters. Yet, in some ways, the interiors of these Soviet apartments were even scarier than the renovated homes in Kalamaja, since they contained an incongruous mix of lively green and brown Soviet cabinetry with sterile grey and white IKEA furnishings. This odd combination made me think of Frankenstein.
Now, on reflection, I realise I should not have been surprised by the housing situation in Tallinn. After all, I know that IKEA rules the world today in much the same way that Gustavus Adolphus ruled Tartu in 1632. And, equally, I appreciate that modern furnishings can be far more comfortable than couches and chairs from the twentieth century.
Still, it seemed wrong to move halfway around the planet, only to live in a place that looked exactly like my old home in Toronto. And since it struck me as almost impossible to undo the IKEA-fication of a classic wooden house in Kalamaja, I decided to rent a Frankenstein apartment in the centre of Tallinn and restore it to its original Soviet aesthetic, albeit without knowing much about the controversy in store for me.
Looking for Soviet furniture
I picked up the keys to my so-called “Stalinka” building in early February – and began searching antique shops in Tallinn for Soviet-era furnishings almost immediately. Although these antique shops had plenty of Soviet-era lamps, clocks and other small trinkets, I had no luck finding Soviet tables, chairs or similar items. I worried that I was stuck with my Frankenstein indefinitely.
At this point, an Estonian friend explained that Soviet-era furniture is almost always sent straight to the scrap bin when Estonians begin a renovation. Yet she also said that I might improve my chances of finding Soviet furnishings by posting a request for help in some used-furniture Facebook groups and searching for Soviet items in the east of the country.
So, after initially scouring antique shops in Tallinn, I posted a grainy picture of a Soviet-era armchair to several English, Estonian and Russian-language Facebook groups across Estonia. Along with the picture, I explained that I was a Canadian who had just moved to Tallinn and that I was looking to restore my “Stalinka” apartment to its original Soviet grandeur. Finally, I asked whether anyone might have Soviet furnishings similar to the chair pictured that they were looking to give away. Then I kept my fingers crossed for a positive response.
What I received was something entirely different.
A Facebook post turns into a cultural dispute
After visiting the Estonian Memorial to the Victims of Communism shortly after it opened in August 2018, and subsequently studying Estonian history, I understand why many Estonians have an aversion to anything and everything from the Soviet Union. I also realise that ethnic Estonian involvement in the Estonian Soviet Socialist Republic is complex and remains contested in Estonian cultural discourse. However, I was not fully prepared for the intense dispute that took place in the Facebook comments after I asked for help finding a Soviet-era chair and other such furnishings.
On one side, plenty of Estonians seemed to sympathise with the incongruity I felt when seeing Soviet and IKEA décor combined. Many others spoke fondly of their beautiful childhood homes, as well as the warm and welcoming earth tones of Soviet couches and chairs from the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s. But the comment that generated the most feedback on this side of the debate was from someone I will call “Indrek”:
“Strange how only foreigners value this kind of furniture. Estonians just throw it away and buy stinky melamine from IKEA. I’d love to see what kind of interior you create.”
On the other side, there was a great deal said about the hideous Soviet aesthetic, along with a few nasty expressions that cannot be repeated in a newspaper. Yet the comment that produced the most feedback on this side of the dispute came from a person I’ll call “Sirje”:
“It’s difficult to understand why anyone would want to glorify that time/aesthetic.”
And Sirje’s statement was followed by my all-time favourite reply, from someone I’ll call “Tiit”:
“It’s performative, objectification, a fetishistic appropriation and a classic manifestation of the colonizer gaze, a form of cultural blackface, Sirje. Much like Westerners who move to the tropics to live out “jungle fantasies” while parading in sarongs and adopting local slang without fully learning the language, this high horse academic transplant is treating a complex, often painful history (that’s heavily reflected in the Soviet era’s cheap repos of “first world” design) as a shallow stage set.”
Since Tiit is making some rather bombastic claims about my moral psychology, I would like to dispel any reservations my new neighbours may have about me before moving on to the serious issues at stake in this debate.
First, I am no Céline Dion. And even if I could sing, I have no intention of dressing up in traditional Estonian attire and performing at Estonia’s national song festival, let alone growing a bushy moustache, learning Georgian and Russian, slapping on a Red Army greatcoat and belting out the Soviet anthem as if I were Joseph Stalin.
Second, Canadians who move to Estonia are looking to colonise Estonia about as much as Estonians who move to Canada are looking to colonise Canada. Yet, far more importantly, Canada currently has thousands of troops in the Baltic states in order to protect Lithuanians, Latvians and Estonians from a real colonial threat: Russia.
But bombast aside, Indrek, Sirje and Tiit’s comments do raise a few tricky moral issues. Can a genuine distinction be drawn between aesthetics and politics, such that it is possible to appreciate the elegance of Soviet-era furnishings while simultaneously acknowledging that Stalin was an evil dictator who led a repressive Soviet regime? And, if so, is it permissible for foreigners in Estonia to show admiration for the aesthetic qualities of various Soviet things that many locals detest for political reasons?
Can aesthetics be separated from politics?
The precise relationship between aesthetic and political considerations has been the subject of great debate since Plato’s invocation of “an ancient quarrel between poetry and philosophy” in 370 BC, but the fact that there is ample overlap between aesthetics and politics is beyond dispute.
The Estonian flag is simultaneously an aesthetic and political object, in which a specific arrangement of blue, black and white stripes represents the citizenry of the Estonian state. Similarly, the towering War of Independence Victory Column in Tallinn reminds Estonians of their shared political fate. And presidential palaces, parliaments and state houses the world over rely on art, opulence and scale to signal and project the power vested in the government of the day.
That said, the Estonian parliament may be filled with a lot of drama and the occasional painting, but Estonians do not typically treat it as their national opera house or state art museum. This fact alone suggests that Estonians do make a meaningful distinction between the exercise of political power and the aesthetic qualities that characterise a work of art. And it is precisely this dichotomy between politics and aesthetics that enabled some Estonians to draw a distinction between Stalin and Soviet nightstands, and then explain to me that they were glad to find someone else who appreciated the grace and style of a Soviet-era armchair.
The distinction between aesthetics and politics also helps explain why immigrants find beauty in Soviet furnishings when many Estonians do not. Having visited the Chrysler Building and Fallingwater, I instantly see how Soviet-era wardrobes and sofa beds share basic but sublime design features with art deco and modernist masterpieces. Likewise, my Canadian upbringing means the collective suffering Estonians experienced under Soviet rule is foreign to me, and this undoubtedly makes it easier for me to separate aesthetic and political considerations and thus freely admire the splendour of a Soviet-era lampshade.
Of course, this brings us to the second tricky issue mentioned above. If a genuine distinction can be drawn between aesthetic and political phenomena, and between the standards by which each is evaluated, is it acceptable for foreigners in Estonia to show appreciation for the aesthetic qualities of Soviet furnishings that many locals despise because of a complex and painful political history?
The foreigner’s gaze and the risk of insensitivity
Unlike Estonians who suffered under a repressive Soviet regime but nevertheless see beauty in Soviet-era furnishings, foreigners run the risk of being insensitive to a fraught political history they did not experience first-hand when they admire the elegance of an old art deco nightstand. Thankfully, this risk of insensitivity among foreigners can be mitigated in much the same way it is mitigated for Estonians who were born after the collapse of the Soviet Union: by learning about Estonian history and culture, and then keeping that knowledge in mind when making aesthetic and political judgements in Estonia.
Alas, studying Estonian history and culture comes with its own risk for foreigners, namely taking something that is not theirs and making it their own. This could be seen as a form of cultural appropriation, where someone from a dominant culture adopts the aesthetics of a minority culture. Yet foreigners are hardly a dominant cultural force in Estonia. And coming to appreciate Estonian history and culture, including that of the Soviet period, is less a form of cultural appropriation than a form of cultural integration.
That said, no matter how much time and effort a foreigner puts into studying Estonian history, they will always carry their own cultural assumptions and standards with them. In the worst case, this results in a form of orientalism, where a foreigner takes the local culture to be irrational and inferior to their own. However, orientalism is not inevitable. And I hope my distaste for the monotony of modern Canadian housing, combined with my desire to live in a classic wooden house in Kalamaja or a Soviet-era apartment in the centre of Tallinn, shows that it is perfectly possible for a foreigner to believe that a local culture surpasses their own.
As I see it, foreigners in Estonia do run the risk of being insensitive, appropriative and orientalist when expressing admiration for Soviet-era furnishings. But if they develop an adequate understanding of Estonian history and show their appreciation for Soviet décor in reasoned and respectful ways, then there is nothing wrong with foreigners expressing admiration for the aesthetic characteristics of Soviet décor that many locals detest. In fact, there may actually be something very right about showing such appreciation. And to see why, we need to return to the intense Facebook debate that prompted this discussion, and to the Estonian experience of the Soviet period more generally.
Kati’s story: finding beauty without nostalgia
Although I received more than a little hate mail after posting a grainy picture of a Soviet-era armchair, I also received a long series of direct messages from a person I will call “Kati”. Taken together, these messages read more like a letter in which Kati felt compelled to share her experience of the Soviet era, as well as her response to my Facebook post and the subsequent comments.
From what I gather, Kati’s story is a familiar one. She was born in the 1970s. Her grandparents were deported to Siberia in the late 1940s. And her parents and wider family were quietly, constantly and understandably hostile to anything and everything associated with the Soviet regime.
At the same time, Kati spoke eloquently and affectionately about the fixtures in her childhood home. Apparently, the earthy green and brown décor, combined with various floral patterns and solid wood furniture, made her feel as if she were outside at her summer house when stuck in her Tallinn apartment in the middle of winter.
Kati also noted that she never saw the furnishings in her home as some sort of foreign imposition. Even when her family acquired these quirky red and orange lamps in the 1980s, they were designed and produced by people she knew, who were presumably employed at the local Estoplast factory.
Crucially, Kati said she had long felt guilty about her fondness for her childhood home, but that somehow my Facebook post and defence of it in the comments invited her to see things differently.
Specifically, Kati told me that she had always lived with the tension between a terrifying regime and her warm and welcoming home, but had never explicitly drawn the distinction between aesthetic and political considerations in her head. Yet after doing so, and after reading the following reply I made to Sirje and Tiit,
“Given just how violent and destructive this world of ours can be, I reckon we ought to do what we can to see what beauty there is in our surroundings, even if that beauty is to be found in an old art deco nightstand or an outdated modernist armchair.”
Kati explained that she finally felt free to truly appreciate something she had secretly cherished all her life.
Now, obviously, Kati’s experience is far from universal. But I take it as further proof that it is possible to appreciate the elegance of Soviet furnishings while maintaining that Stalin was a vile dictator who ran a repressive Soviet regime. Similarly, I believe Kati’s letter shows that Estonians and foreigners alike have a duty to point out the beauty around them, if only in an attempt to bring light and joy to others in a dark and dangerous world. Finally, after Sirje’s and Tiit’s comments and all the hate mail I received, Kati’s story really motivated me to see my restoration project through to the finish.
Restoring a Soviet-era interior
And I am so glad I did just that. I managed to turn my Frankenstein into a warm and welcoming abode that I imagine is just like Kati’s childhood home. But restoring my “Stalinka” to its Soviet-era aesthetic also gave me the chance to travel to previously unexplored towns and cities across Estonia, from which I was ultimately able to collect an authentic, if idiosyncratic, set of Soviet furnishings.
Through this process, I met Estonians from all walks of life. Some thought I was crazy for renting a cargo van and driving to Narva just to pick up an old Soviet sofa bed. Others became rather invested in my search and found themselves scouring their summer houses for furniture I might need. And, to my great surprise, when I posted a picture of my restored apartment along with a thank-you note to the Facebook group that had previously been the site of such controversy, the post went viral with more than 500 likes and some 10,000 views.
So I cannot be completely crazy. Or at least, there must be something to the distinction I see between aesthetics and politics. And while I know Soviet décor is not for everybody, I have written this article as something of an invitation, through which I encourage my politically minded critics to seek the beauty in their Soviet furnishings and potentially save their elegant art deco nightstands and graceful modernist armchairs from the proverbial scrap bin of history.
