​the boys of vilnius

Photographer Visvaldas Morkevicius shoots the people and landscapes of the suburban estates of the Lithuanian capital he grew up in.

by Anastasiia Fedorova
28 June 2016, 9:30am

"One winter day in Vilnius, I was gazing through the trolleybus window and noticed two guys waiting at the bus stop. They were wearing tracksuits and had thick black plastic bags with them. My mind was suddenly filled with various images from my childhood... images of guys hanging around in my neighbourhood, wearing the exact same gear and with the exact same attitude as the two guys I had just seen. I was both surprised and excited to see that some things just never get old," Sofija Rybakovaite explains. It was then that the idea came to her to start shooting the boys of Lazdynai, an area of Lithuania's capital Vilnius, with photographer Visvaldas Morkevičius.

Rybakovaite and Morkevičius, who are both Lithuanian, were seeking to channel their childhood amongst the typical estates of the city, built just before the end of the Soviet era. They picked Lazdynai for a reason, as a very significant example of the ideas and aesthetics of the USSR. "Lazdynai is the best of the worst Soviet architecture in Vilnius," Visvaldas Morkevičius laughs. "The project was launched in 1964, as a tribute to Soviet architecture. The group of architects were awarded the Lenin Orize for the planning of the neighbourhood. Today, we have this slang word, Khrusciovka, which describes the three to five-storey blocks and brick houses built in the era of Nikita Khrushchev. Even though many residents of Vilnius tend to favour the buildings of the Old Town nowadays, Lazdynai still has a special place in the hearts of those who grew up there. For me this shoot was not just about fashion, but an exploration of our society, too. The modern context and people here are layered over that Soviet space that I find worth exploring".

The resulting photo story captures the languid laid-back attitude of the urban edgelands -- housing blocks poking out of a sea of green suburbs, clear summer light, boys lingering in tracksuits and sportswear. It's an aesthetic that came to define Eastern Europe, tough guys with buzzcuts and tracksuits on brutalist estates. It channels the current trend for post-Soviet cool, certainly, but also something more global; fashion's rising obsession with visual narratives of the working class. Lazdynai is not too dissimilar from certain corners of London and Paris, whilst Soviet aesthetics just happen to be the perfect embodiment of the working class look -- in the Soviet Union the working class was the only class of course. Today its visual tropes are symbols of the larger issues: the vanishing world we remember from the 90s and a social order we grew up questioning.

One of the key reasons for the rise of rougher and more socially complex imagery in fashion is of course the major shift in its discourse. Times when fashion was used mainly to express privilege and wealth are long gone, hierarchies dismantled by the internet, and now, in the age of post-irony, the highs and lows are mixed to the point when it's hard to discern the ends. Adidas slippers with socks and tracksuits today are just another part of the new generation's wardrobe. In search of a new energy fashion tends to appropriate what used to look repulsive and was stigmatised. Tracksuits have come a long way from the wardrobe of petty criminals and football casuals to become a fashion staple. But what about the visual world the tracksuit belongs to? More than a mere setting, its appropriation is a symptom of social and creative change.

Traditionally fashion imagery was meant to provide an escape from the daily routine and create an aspirational world. Today, following the growing influence of subcultures in fashion and more documentary-style photography, more and more creatives are looking for inspiration in the places they are from, injecting some of fashion's magic into the seemingly unremarkable. Doncaster-born Alasdair McLellan has celebrated the benches, bus-stops and shop fronts of his native town in numerous editorials -- often featuring Northern boys too -- not for the sake of glamorising it, but because that is what felt truthful and honest to him.

Gosha Rubchinskiy found his inspiration in growing up in Moscow in the 90s, and later hanging out with skaters in St Petersburg and Yalta, he kept the Orthodox churches and Lenin busts in the frame simply because they were there. Even Skepta's recent video for Shutdown, shot in the Barbican, one of London's most iconic brutalist estates tells a larger story of a utopian vision, social failure and gentrification.

At the same time, not everyone has embraced Brutalism or working class suburbs as a backdrop for a vision of working class fashion. London-based brand Cottweiler did exactly the opposite. All their visuals are stripped from urban backgrounds and shot in pristine gallery-like settings. Their conscious attitude to the myths surrounding the tracksuit as an item comes through in the tailored cut as well - it's nothing like the baggy slouchy shape of the original. Taking it out of its obvious setting means denying the cheap trick of working class fetishisation, a reaction towards lingering stereotypes, stigmatisation and cultural appropriation.

The aesthetic of poor but cool in fashion is almost always controversial, it doesn't matter if it's shot on estates in south London, Berlin or Lithuania. There is always the uncanny idea of borrowing settings to shoot expensive garments to appropriate the socially disadvantaged. On the other hand, when treated correctly, it opens the whole new dimension for discussing the place of fashion imagery in contemporary culture. The key is finding the right approach: for his shoot in Lazdynai, for instance, Visvaldas Morkevičius cast two of his friends as models, one of whom grew up in the neighbourhood.

But in the end, what is at the core of our obsession with the working class aesthetics? It could be the curious duality that we feel both detached from it and incredibly connected. Already nostalgic for the recent 90s, the generation making their money mostly from working on a laptop can't grasp the pains of deindustrialisation that so affected this vanishing world. On the other hand, in the classic working class imagery we often see people who were failed by the system. Perhaps in the current political climate this is how we all feel.


Text Anastasiia Fedorova 
Photography Visvaldas Morkevicius
Styling Sofija Rybakovaite

Think Pieces
Anastasiia Fedorova
post-soviet cool
sofija rybakovaite
visvaldas morkevicius
working class aesthetic