FINDING THE ART OF SOLIDARITY IN THE GDANSK SHIPYARDS
"OK, I just need to work a small vaseline project..."
We want to take pictures around the Gdansk shipyards. The ‘commandante’ that gave us permission the day before is off duty and his suspicious replacement needs some buttering up. Luckily, Iwona Zajac is adept at smoothing bureaucratic snarls, her never-ending ‘vaseline projects’ as she calls them.
With grinning, elfin features and day-glo cagoule standing out among the hardened faces and work-beaten overalls around her, Zajac isn’t your typical shipyard denizen. As well as being an internationally-exhibited artist (including shows in the UK and USA), she is one of the new inhabitants of this infamous, brutally industrial district – part of the artists’ colony that has taken root in Gdansk’s “Young City”, the name given to the redevelopment of the shipyard district.
For such a seemingly unassuming place, Gdansk has played a pivotal role in modern history. The first shots of World War II rang out here, and in 1980 the shipyards were the focus of international attention as Lech Walesa lead the anti- Communist Solidarity movement and became President a decade later. Back then there were 16,000 shipyard workers, building 16 ships per year.
Three decades later, there are just 3,000, and last year a mere three ships were launched. Walesa’s republic now lies mostly derelict, sold to overseas investors and facing an uncertain future. However, this is the 21st century and where industry dwindles, art flourishes in its place; the colony has been here since 2001.
“The city gave us 20 spaces and suddenly we had a golden future,” Zajac tells me over coffee in her studio. “The artists kept the area alive, and we had dancers, artists, musicians, filmmakers and fashion designers. We had lots of events; me making stencils for the bands and the photographer doing shoots for the dancers.”
This city-subsidised explosion of talent was enough to sow the seeds of a genuine movement, Zajac and some of her fellow artists initially assuming the name Nothing About Us, Without Us (a nod to a 1970s Krzysztof Kieslowski film). At first, it was a bizarre clash of worlds. “When we moved in, we were excited children,” says Zajac. “The security guards didn’t know what to make of us. We thought it was a playground, drinking beer everywhere, climbing the cranes – which isn’t really how to act in a working industrial centre. Now we behave ourselves.” This means a more formal approach. Instead of spontaneous happenings, there are now official exhibitions, workshops and no beer drinking near heavy machinery.
Ola Grzonkowska and Roma Piotrowska are the curators of the official gallery space, Wyspa (www.wyspa.art.pl), which has its own slick café/shop and atmospheric showrooms. When we visit, they are busy preparing an exhibition encompassing work from all the colony’s artists. “We hope the exhibition will endear the artists to local people and make some links with the city,” says Grzonkowska. “Things are changing. I hope they will leave us some little space.”
Things are afoot for the shipyards. New investors are planning shopping malls and loft apartments in place of the crumbling warehouses. The colony will be moved within the compound but is likely safe for at least the next five years. Zajac and some of her colleagues see it as their mission to ensure that the original occupants aren’t forgotten, having grown up around Solidarity: “It was an amazing time during the strikes, and I would ride my bike and look at the cranes. I loved this place so much, always asking the older people about the shipyard. People worked here for 40 years – they had entire lives here, which just isn’t possible today.”
Much of her recent work has been the arresting stencils on the shipyard walls, telling stories of the workers, displaying feelings that are largely held back that are, according to her catalogue, ‘about life, work, dreams and unfulfilled plans’.
“No-one asked the workers about their lives after the strikes,” she says. “Everything just went back to normal. There were some famous names, but people were forgotten. I wanted to know what they felt. They told me they felt proud when they completed a ship, seeing it launch and someday return to the port. It’s not really something they talk about between themselves.”
This legacy is being passed to the next generation, too young to really remember Solidarity, and students such as Karolina Piatkiewicz and Emila Garska have graduated through Zajac’s workshops and have helped her take their message out to the rest of Poland. They don’t just deal in cheap emotional nostalgia, either. “It’s easy to ‘play’ with Solidarity,” says Zajac. “Personally, I don’t want to. It was a beautiful time, but I want to give people a voice today.”
Zajac grins one of her huge grins: “The future is coming quickly, and soon the shops and apartments will arrive. I don’t know if we’ll survive, but we’ll try.” I get the feeling she’s relishing the prospect of her biggest vaseline project yet.
"OK, I just need to work a small vaseline project..."
We want to take pictures around the Gdansk shipyards. The ‘commandante’ that gave us permission the day before is off duty and his suspicious replacement needs some buttering up. Luckily, Iwona Zajac is adept at smoothing bureaucratic snarls, her never-ending ‘vaseline projects’ as she calls them.
With grinning, elfin features and day-glo cagoule standing out among the hardened faces and work-beaten overalls around her, Zajac isn’t your typical shipyard denizen. As well as being an internationally-exhibited artist (including shows in the UK and USA), she is one of the new inhabitants of this infamous, brutally industrial district – part of the artists’ colony that has taken root in Gdansk’s “Young City”, the name given to the redevelopment of the shipyard district.
For such a seemingly unassuming place, Gdansk has played a pivotal role in modern history. The first shots of World War II rang out here, and in 1980 the shipyards were the focus of international attention as Lech Walesa lead the anti- Communist Solidarity movement and became President a decade later. Back then there were 16,000 shipyard workers, building 16 ships per year.
Three decades later, there are just 3,000, and last year a mere three ships were launched. Walesa’s republic now lies mostly derelict, sold to overseas investors and facing an uncertain future. However, this is the 21st century and where industry dwindles, art flourishes in its place; the colony has been here since 2001.
“The city gave us 20 spaces and suddenly we had a golden future,” Zajac tells me over coffee in her studio. “The artists kept the area alive, and we had dancers, artists, musicians, filmmakers and fashion designers. We had lots of events; me making stencils for the bands and the photographer doing shoots for the dancers.”
This city-subsidised explosion of talent was enough to sow the seeds of a genuine movement, Zajac and some of her fellow artists initially assuming the name Nothing About Us, Without Us (a nod to a 1970s Krzysztof Kieslowski film). At first, it was a bizarre clash of worlds. “When we moved in, we were excited children,” says Zajac. “The security guards didn’t know what to make of us. We thought it was a playground, drinking beer everywhere, climbing the cranes – which isn’t really how to act in a working industrial centre. Now we behave ourselves.” This means a more formal approach. Instead of spontaneous happenings, there are now official exhibitions, workshops and no beer drinking near heavy machinery.
Ola Grzonkowska and Roma Piotrowska are the curators of the official gallery space, Wyspa (www.wyspa.art.pl), which has its own slick café/shop and atmospheric showrooms. When we visit, they are busy preparing an exhibition encompassing work from all the colony’s artists. “We hope the exhibition will endear the artists to local people and make some links with the city,” says Grzonkowska. “Things are changing. I hope they will leave us some little space.”
Things are afoot for the shipyards. New investors are planning shopping malls and loft apartments in place of the crumbling warehouses. The colony will be moved within the compound but is likely safe for at least the next five years. Zajac and some of her colleagues see it as their mission to ensure that the original occupants aren’t forgotten, having grown up around Solidarity: “It was an amazing time during the strikes, and I would ride my bike and look at the cranes. I loved this place so much, always asking the older people about the shipyard. People worked here for 40 years – they had entire lives here, which just isn’t possible today.”
Much of her recent work has been the arresting stencils on the shipyard walls, telling stories of the workers, displaying feelings that are largely held back that are, according to her catalogue, ‘about life, work, dreams and unfulfilled plans’.
“No-one asked the workers about their lives after the strikes,” she says. “Everything just went back to normal. There were some famous names, but people were forgotten. I wanted to know what they felt. They told me they felt proud when they completed a ship, seeing it launch and someday return to the port. It’s not really something they talk about between themselves.”
This legacy is being passed to the next generation, too young to really remember Solidarity, and students such as Karolina Piatkiewicz and Emila Garska have graduated through Zajac’s workshops and have helped her take their message out to the rest of Poland. They don’t just deal in cheap emotional nostalgia, either. “It’s easy to ‘play’ with Solidarity,” says Zajac. “Personally, I don’t want to. It was a beautiful time, but I want to give people a voice today.”
Zajac grins one of her huge grins: “The future is coming quickly, and soon the shops and apartments will arrive. I don’t know if we’ll survive, but we’ll try.” I get the feeling she’s relishing the prospect of her biggest vaseline project yet.