Learning by travel with Vilen Künnapu
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Interview with Estonian architect Vien Künnapu about travel for the book Workbook of Affinities. Pdf available for free on the publisher's (University of Porto press) homepage.
Learning by travel with Vilen Künnapu
The interview with Vilen Künnapu (b. 1948) took place in his studio on the top floor of a high-rise in the heart of Tallinn. This area, home to the city’s major banks and international hotel chains, is commonly referred to in English as Tallinn City. Fifty years ago, in the 1970s, when Künnapu was a student and beginning his architectural career here, the district was unrecognisable. Its post-apocalyptic atmosphere was so striking that large parts of Andrei Tarkovsky’s film Stalker (1979) were shot in the heart of Tallinn. At the same time, the Soviet Union’s tightly controlled borders created an entirely different environment from the dynamic, globalised bustle that now characterises Tallinn City, with its flow of goods, money, and people.
What makes a conversation with Künnapu so compelling is that his thinking and practice seem largely unconstrained by spatial or temporal limits. Perhaps this global perspective stems from the fact that his mother spent her youth in New York. Yet, despite his cosmopolitan outlook, Künnapu is consistently patriotic: he never disparages his hometown and delights in celebrating the talents of local creatives. His views are matched by his influence—over the past decades, few architects have shaped the appearance of Tallinn’s city centre as profoundly as he has.
We publish here the first part of a several-hour conversation, focusing on Künnapu’s travels abroad during the Soviet period.
Gregor Taul: Your first trip outside the Soviet Union was to Poland in 1968.
Vilen Künnapu: Yes, it was a student trip during my second year. It was an extraordinary experience. Poland was a very vibrant place at the time, producing excellent films. We were also captivated by Polish poster art and contemporary visual art, which were remarkably in tune with international trends.
GT: Compared with the closed borders of the Soviet Union, it must have felt like an entirely different world. Polish artists exhibited abroad constantly—for instance, in 1968 there was an exhibition of Polish poster art at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Poland was also swept up in the global wave of student protests that year.
VK: I was already something of an “antenna” even then. On our first night in Warsaw, we stumbled upon the legendary club of the Academy of Arts. It was a rather exclusive place, but at that moment it was a true hotbed of rebellion. We ended up at the same table as some of the leading figures of the movement—it was, of course, incredibly exciting. There was also a smaller man named Jerzy, a local genius and painter, who was eager to get to know us. Jerzy became a famous artist, though he struggled with alcohol and died young.
We then travelled to Krakow, where we were warmly received. By the time we returned to Warsaw, however, the main movement had already been suppressed, and some of the men we had sat with were imprisoned.
1968 was a remarkable year worldwide. That same spirit of experimentation and rebellion existed in Tallinn, too—through progressive art, absurdist theatre, and other avant-garde movements.
GT: Would you say this was primarily a cultural experience for you, or was it more of an “architectural journey”?
VK: It’s always the same for me. Architecture interests me insofar as it engages with movement and flow. I’m not interested in mainstream trends—these days, for instance, zero-energy houses don’t excite me. I want to experience and create things that are interesting, because I see myself as an artist.
GT: How much did you travel within the Soviet Union as a student?
VK: I had already travelled around the Soviet Union before attending the art institute. As a little boy, I went to the Caucasus several times with my mother, and we also visited the Black Sea with friends. After graduating, I travelled to Kyrgyzstan, as well as to Latvia and Lithuania. That was when a range of opportunities began to open up.
GT: In 1969, you were in Hungary. What took you there?
VK: I spent a few months in Hungary. This opportunity—like the earlier trip to Poland—was arranged by Lapin, our Komsomol secretary. In Budapest, there were archaeological excavations at the Roman site of Aquincum. I had never been a member of a construction brigade, but this trip was only possible under the Komsomol’s Student Construction Brigade programme. At school, we were taught to look down on such institutions. Our professors, such as Edgar Johan Kuusik, would say that an architect is an aristocrat and should not go to these camps.
In the end, I worked alongside Hungarians and Poles on the excavations. Afterwards, some Hungarian colleagues came to Estonia to work with us in return.
GT: Your first trip outside the Eastern Bloc was to Finland in 1974.
VK: Yes, it was immediately after we graduated from the institute. I had married Liivi, so it was a little like a honeymoon. Officially, it was a tourist trip, but, as always with me, I quickly made contact with some Americans and Estonians living abroad. By the time I went to the United States a few years later, I already had acquaintances there waiting for me.
GT: Did close relations with the Finns begin with that first trip to Finland?
VK: The close ties between the Estonian and Finnish architectural elite developed gradually. At one point, Finnish architects started coming here more often because they were drawn to the KuKu Club and its vibrant atmosphere – few could believe we had such freedom and energy in the air. Later, Finnish artists also began visiting, particularly those associated with the magazine Taide. I developed close contacts with the editors and contributors of the magazine Arkkitehti. From there came the Tallinn School, its promotion in Finland, and joint parties and activities. In any case, the Finns later assisted us in all sorts of ways – smuggling books, sending competition briefs, and helping to submit entries to competitions outside the Soviet Union.
GT: In 1978, you managed to travel to the United States.
VK: I never imagined anyone would actually take me there. I applied to the Union of Architects almost as a joke, and then, out of the blue, I received a call saying they had a reserve position. Eventually, that reserve position became a real one, and I joined the group. It was a stroke of luck for a young man. There were other young people in the group too, for example, a Georgian prodigy with whom I became friends – he went on to build that famous cantilevered house by the river. All in all, they were remarkable people, and the trip was an incredibly powerful experience.
GT: Was the trip organised by the Union of Architects of the Soviet Union?
VK: The itinerary was arranged in cooperation with the Americans. We were accompanied by a young American architect who showed us all the key sites. Since we were Soviet architects, they wanted to show us the very best, including new landmarks such as John Portman’s Bonaventure Hotel in Los Angeles. Because I got along well with the Moscow architects and the group leader, they allowed me to explore on my own. Estonian cultural figures living abroad would pick me up from the hotel in the morning, and I would return in the evening — no fuss. Some others didn’t even dare to leave the hotel alone; the propaganda was so strong that a few genuinely feared they would be killed if they ventured too far.
By then, a new culture was already emerging — postmodernism. Of course, the locals wanted to show us late modernist masterpieces, but I said, wait, wait, you should show the newer stuff too. For example, I was taken to Stanley Tigerman’s Arby’s restaurant in Chicago. It was a tiny place, but incredibly stylish, full of pipes and playful tricks, painted in Mondrian colours and so inventive. After we left, our American guide — the child of Russian emigrants — told me that he knew American architecture well, but then pointed at me and said I knew it even better. I had read all the latest books and magazines on new architecture, brought to me by the Finns.
In Boston, we also visited the MIT School of Architecture. I leafed through the library, where I found Finnish magazines that had published my projects. I could casually show them to our Georgian companion, and his jaw literally dropped — it was as if I had picked up the first magazine and there were my drawings! One of my collages, for example, showed one of my private houses flying over New York.
GT: In 1978, you also visited Czechoslovakia and Hungary, and in 1983, you travelled to France.
VK: The first foreign competition that Ain Padrik and I took part in was in France — for Parc de la Villette. After the competition ended, a group of architects from across the Soviet Union who had participated travelled there together. We spent most of our time in Paris, where the competition entries were shown as slides at the Pompidou Centre. It was wonderful to socialise with Estonians living abroad and to go to the theatre in Paris, although I must admit that connecting with expat Estonians was never my main aim. Even more stimulating, however, was spending time with Armenian and especially Georgian architects, who represented the elite of Soviet architecture. And of course, there were the so-called “paper architects” from Moscow, like Mikhail Belov and Yuri Avvakumov, with whom I still keep in touch today.
GT: Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, you also made it to Norway in 1988?
VK: By then, I had gained some recognition — my work was being published in foreign magazines — so I started receiving invitations. We had also organised the Tallinn Ten exhibition, of which I was the main organiser. The architecture magazine Byggekunst invited me to Norway. On this trip, I was introduced to Christian Norberg-Schulz, who by then had, of course, become a megastar. We talked about everything — energies and so on.
In Oslo, I visited an exhibition of young architects, where I met the Snøhetta team. They had a gallery called ROM — or “room,” right — where they showed their installations. They also invited me to see one of their unfinished private houses, to which Kjetil said, “Now you have seen everything,” implying there was nothing else in Oslo worth seeing. There was enough arrogance, but young people have to be a bit cheeky — that’s the point!
Before the evening ended, someone mentioned there was a Leonard Cohen concert on an island. We went there and, you know… it was far more interesting than looking at some architect’s stuff!
The interview with Vilen Künnapu (b. 1948) took place in his studio on the top floor of a high-rise in the heart of Tallinn. This area, home to the city’s major banks and international hotel chains, is commonly referred to in English as Tallinn City. Fifty years ago, in the 1970s, when Künnapu was a student and beginning his architectural career here, the district was unrecognisable. Its post-apocalyptic atmosphere was so striking that large parts of Andrei Tarkovsky’s film Stalker (1979) were shot in the heart of Tallinn. At the same time, the Soviet Union’s tightly controlled borders created an entirely different environment from the dynamic, globalised bustle that now characterises Tallinn City, with its flow of goods, money, and people.
What makes a conversation with Künnapu so compelling is that his thinking and practice seem largely unconstrained by spatial or temporal limits. Perhaps this global perspective stems from the fact that his mother spent her youth in New York. Yet, despite his cosmopolitan outlook, Künnapu is consistently patriotic: he never disparages his hometown and delights in celebrating the talents of local creatives. His views are matched by his influence—over the past decades, few architects have shaped the appearance of Tallinn’s city centre as profoundly as he has.
We publish here the first part of a several-hour conversation, focusing on Künnapu’s travels abroad during the Soviet period.
Gregor Taul: Your first trip outside the Soviet Union was to Poland in 1968.
Vilen Künnapu: Yes, it was a student trip during my second year. It was an extraordinary experience. Poland was a very vibrant place at the time, producing excellent films. We were also captivated by Polish poster art and contemporary visual art, which were remarkably in tune with international trends.
GT: Compared with the closed borders of the Soviet Union, it must have felt like an entirely different world. Polish artists exhibited abroad constantly—for instance, in 1968 there was an exhibition of Polish poster art at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Poland was also swept up in the global wave of student protests that year.
VK: I was already something of an “antenna” even then. On our first night in Warsaw, we stumbled upon the legendary club of the Academy of Arts. It was a rather exclusive place, but at that moment it was a true hotbed of rebellion. We ended up at the same table as some of the leading figures of the movement—it was, of course, incredibly exciting. There was also a smaller man named Jerzy, a local genius and painter, who was eager to get to know us. Jerzy became a famous artist, though he struggled with alcohol and died young.
We then travelled to Krakow, where we were warmly received. By the time we returned to Warsaw, however, the main movement had already been suppressed, and some of the men we had sat with were imprisoned.
1968 was a remarkable year worldwide. That same spirit of experimentation and rebellion existed in Tallinn, too—through progressive art, absurdist theatre, and other avant-garde movements.
GT: Would you say this was primarily a cultural experience for you, or was it more of an “architectural journey”?
VK: It’s always the same for me. Architecture interests me insofar as it engages with movement and flow. I’m not interested in mainstream trends—these days, for instance, zero-energy houses don’t excite me. I want to experience and create things that are interesting, because I see myself as an artist.
GT: How much did you travel within the Soviet Union as a student?
VK: I had already travelled around the Soviet Union before attending the art institute. As a little boy, I went to the Caucasus several times with my mother, and we also visited the Black Sea with friends. After graduating, I travelled to Kyrgyzstan, as well as to Latvia and Lithuania. That was when a range of opportunities began to open up.
GT: In 1969, you were in Hungary. What took you there?
VK: I spent a few months in Hungary. This opportunity—like the earlier trip to Poland—was arranged by Lapin, our Komsomol secretary. In Budapest, there were archaeological excavations at the Roman site of Aquincum. I had never been a member of a construction brigade, but this trip was only possible under the Komsomol’s Student Construction Brigade programme. At school, we were taught to look down on such institutions. Our professors, such as Edgar Johan Kuusik, would say that an architect is an aristocrat and should not go to these camps.
In the end, I worked alongside Hungarians and Poles on the excavations. Afterwards, some Hungarian colleagues came to Estonia to work with us in return.
GT: Your first trip outside the Eastern Bloc was to Finland in 1974.
VK: Yes, it was immediately after we graduated from the institute. I had married Liivi, so it was a little like a honeymoon. Officially, it was a tourist trip, but, as always with me, I quickly made contact with some Americans and Estonians living abroad. By the time I went to the United States a few years later, I already had acquaintances there waiting for me.
GT: Did close relations with the Finns begin with that first trip to Finland?
VK: The close ties between the Estonian and Finnish architectural elite developed gradually. At one point, Finnish architects started coming here more often because they were drawn to the KuKu Club and its vibrant atmosphere – few could believe we had such freedom and energy in the air. Later, Finnish artists also began visiting, particularly those associated with the magazine Taide. I developed close contacts with the editors and contributors of the magazine Arkkitehti. From there came the Tallinn School, its promotion in Finland, and joint parties and activities. In any case, the Finns later assisted us in all sorts of ways – smuggling books, sending competition briefs, and helping to submit entries to competitions outside the Soviet Union.
GT: In 1978, you managed to travel to the United States.
VK: I never imagined anyone would actually take me there. I applied to the Union of Architects almost as a joke, and then, out of the blue, I received a call saying they had a reserve position. Eventually, that reserve position became a real one, and I joined the group. It was a stroke of luck for a young man. There were other young people in the group too, for example, a Georgian prodigy with whom I became friends – he went on to build that famous cantilevered house by the river. All in all, they were remarkable people, and the trip was an incredibly powerful experience.
GT: Was the trip organised by the Union of Architects of the Soviet Union?
VK: The itinerary was arranged in cooperation with the Americans. We were accompanied by a young American architect who showed us all the key sites. Since we were Soviet architects, they wanted to show us the very best, including new landmarks such as John Portman’s Bonaventure Hotel in Los Angeles. Because I got along well with the Moscow architects and the group leader, they allowed me to explore on my own. Estonian cultural figures living abroad would pick me up from the hotel in the morning, and I would return in the evening — no fuss. Some others didn’t even dare to leave the hotel alone; the propaganda was so strong that a few genuinely feared they would be killed if they ventured too far.
By then, a new culture was already emerging — postmodernism. Of course, the locals wanted to show us late modernist masterpieces, but I said, wait, wait, you should show the newer stuff too. For example, I was taken to Stanley Tigerman’s Arby’s restaurant in Chicago. It was a tiny place, but incredibly stylish, full of pipes and playful tricks, painted in Mondrian colours and so inventive. After we left, our American guide — the child of Russian emigrants — told me that he knew American architecture well, but then pointed at me and said I knew it even better. I had read all the latest books and magazines on new architecture, brought to me by the Finns.
In Boston, we also visited the MIT School of Architecture. I leafed through the library, where I found Finnish magazines that had published my projects. I could casually show them to our Georgian companion, and his jaw literally dropped — it was as if I had picked up the first magazine and there were my drawings! One of my collages, for example, showed one of my private houses flying over New York.
GT: In 1978, you also visited Czechoslovakia and Hungary, and in 1983, you travelled to France.
VK: The first foreign competition that Ain Padrik and I took part in was in France — for Parc de la Villette. After the competition ended, a group of architects from across the Soviet Union who had participated travelled there together. We spent most of our time in Paris, where the competition entries were shown as slides at the Pompidou Centre. It was wonderful to socialise with Estonians living abroad and to go to the theatre in Paris, although I must admit that connecting with expat Estonians was never my main aim. Even more stimulating, however, was spending time with Armenian and especially Georgian architects, who represented the elite of Soviet architecture. And of course, there were the so-called “paper architects” from Moscow, like Mikhail Belov and Yuri Avvakumov, with whom I still keep in touch today.
GT: Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, you also made it to Norway in 1988?
VK: By then, I had gained some recognition — my work was being published in foreign magazines — so I started receiving invitations. We had also organised the Tallinn Ten exhibition, of which I was the main organiser. The architecture magazine Byggekunst invited me to Norway. On this trip, I was introduced to Christian Norberg-Schulz, who by then had, of course, become a megastar. We talked about everything — energies and so on.
In Oslo, I visited an exhibition of young architects, where I met the Snøhetta team. They had a gallery called ROM — or “room,” right — where they showed their installations. They also invited me to see one of their unfinished private houses, to which Kjetil said, “Now you have seen everything,” implying there was nothing else in Oslo worth seeing. There was enough arrogance, but young people have to be a bit cheeky — that’s the point!
Before the evening ended, someone mentioned there was a Leonard Cohen concert on an island. We went there and, you know… it was far more interesting than looking at some architect’s stuff!
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