Palace Intrigue
It is safe, if clichéd, to bet that an average American cannot locate Vilnius on a map. It’s a city of 550,000 people and the capital of Lithuania. It populates a valley at the junction of the Vilnia and Neris rivers, some 194 miles east of the Baltic Seacoast. Now here’s a patriotic confession: Yours truly scarcely knew the aforementioned until arriving in Vilnius one freezing evening last February.
Wearing a fur-lined cap with earflaps that cradle a wide bespectacled face, architect Rytis Mikulionis gives me a lift from the airport in his black Citroen sedan. Born in Kaunas, a city 62 miles outside of Vilnius, and educated at the Vilnius Gediminas Technical University, he founded Plazma, a practice now eight-strong, six years ago. He is 37 and just moved into his first flat. In a booming real estate market, he took several years to find the property and spent the past couple years redoing it with his partner, Ausra Marcinkeviciute, an architect focused on interior design.
In the car, Mikulionis apologizes about his English, which is quite good, and I about my Lithuanian, which is limited to one word, aciu—thank you—from the passport control guy. Is Lithuanian anything like Russian or Polish? "No, we are Balts," he says with almost-indignant pride. Though all the Baltic countries have distinct languages, Lithuanian and Latvian have a prehis-toric linguistic origin commonly called Balt—an Indo-European tongue in which some words resemble those of Sanskrit, ancient Greek, and Latin.
"We have always considered ourselves and our culture part of Europe," Mikulionis adds, referring to the national mindset that survived nearly 50 years of U.S.S.R. occu-pation in 1991. "The resistance was hiding in the forest the entire time."
Today, Vilnius is a great place to be an architect. Since the Iron Curtain disintegrated, the city has been building nonstop. High-rises are shooting up in the new center, an area formerly filled with sculptural concrete Soviet monoliths. The old center is a splendor of baroque churches and estates, many of which were built by Italian architects when a Lithuanian duke, Sigismund the Old, married an Italian princess, Bona Sforza, in the 16th century. Now it’s full of restorations that feature contemporary interiors. There is plenty of work to be done.
There is also a surplus of historical baggage, which, as in any former Eastern-block country, is palpably fresh. In the bleak winter, when the trees are bare and matted snow and ice cover every street, the architecture is para-mount. Colorful baroque buildings contrast the 20th-century Soviet architecture with keen, luscious clarity. In some cases, Soviet-era architects seem to have pulled gentle touches of baroque curves into their blocky compositions. And, even where they haven’t, the difference is exhilarating.
The architect looks toward the grounds of an 18th-century monastery, which accompanies the domed church. The large hi-fi system with Infinity acoustics is three centuries newer than the building behind it. The wall sconces are from Luzifer Lamps in Spain. Their pattern of triangular prisms is reminiscent of ceilings in the domes of the Alhambra, the ancient Moorish palace in Andalucia. The shelves are stocked with souvenirs from Mikulionis’s travels—throughout both Europe and former Soviet states like Uzbekistan and Ukraine.
Mikulionis is fond of history. Driving by a city square where a huge statue of Lenin was dramatically pulled off its pedestal in 1991, he points out the lanterns still standing that once surrounded it. "There is a lot of talk in the city about rebuilding this square to make it more pedestrian friendly," he says. "Our practice might be involved. Those lanterns are typically Soviet, and I’d like to keep them there."
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