Moscow Living Forms

The Russian writer Mikhail Bulgakov wrote in 1967 in "The Master and Margarita": "The housing issue has spoiled them." In 2017, the issue of housing will still be at the centre of society in Russia. The current developments in Moscow are a reflection of the problems that have shaped the relationship between people and living space for a century. Even on the 100th anniversary of the October Revolution, issues such as property and privacy are still moving the country.

After the Second World War, many families in urban areas lived in barracks. Due to the rural exodus, the so-called "Kommunalkas" were more crowded than ever before. When Nikita Khrushchev became party leader in March 1953 after Stalin's death, he built large apartment buildings everywhere. A speech at a Moscow building congress at the end of 1954 changed building policy not only in Russia but in the entire Eastern Bloc. Khrushchev paved the way from magnificent Stalin buildings to uniform, simple apartment buildings. It was the beginning of the thaw period and an economic upswing that would last at least until the end of the 1950s.

In Moscow, thousands of these prefabricated buildings from the Khrushchev era are now being demolished. Actually, this should have happened decades ago. Many of the apartment buildings, most of which have five floors, are in a dilapidated or even dilapidated state. But it was only Mayor Sergei Sobyanin who made the decision to take the historic project into his own hands. The gigantic demolition programme is one of the largest in history and is expected to cost over 3.5 billion roubles, or around 51 million euros. But the plans do not meet with popular approval everywhere. In mid-May more than 20,000 Muscovites flocked to a demonstration. Many people are afraid of being pushed to the MKAD ring road for the benefit of the construction industry. Today it is hard to imagine the cityscape without the buildings known as "Khrushchevka". While the low ceilings and narrow rooms are anathema to many residents, for other Russians they are part of their own identity.

However, those who assess the housing issue in Moscow only on the basis of the demolition program only grasp a fraction of its diversity. In the past, the question was answered by socialist housing, in whose decisions the individual had no say. But the close coexistence of people from different milieus in communal housing was a great burden that still has an impact on Russian culture today. It was only the prefabricated housing commissioned by Khrushchev and produced in lightning speed that enabled the Soviet citizen to find retreat and a breath of freedom. In modern Russia, the individual finally has the opportunity to answer the housing question. But as is customary under capitalism, it is above all a question of money. Those without money are dependent on the legacy of the Soviet past - or on their own creativity. There are people who, despite adverse circumstances, have succeeded in finding an answer to the agonising housing question that stands out from the masses.

Juri

Juri (42) lives in an earthen hut on the edge of the M8 between Moscow and Yaroslavl. He used to work as a lawyer in the capital, today he is famous as a "Russian hobbit". The man with felted blond dreadlocks, long red beard and pink woolly cap waits at the highway with a broad grin. Next to him sits a fat rabbit with white fur and red eyes. It is one of the last sunny days before the onset of winter, but Yuri knows how to help himself: Thanks to a solar panel on the roof there is not only electricity in the self-built hut, but also a wood-burning stove with banya. He regularly receives free food from friends in the neighbourhood - or from one of his 25,000 YouTube subscribers. "I lived in Moscow for ten years, finished university, lived in a rented apartment and worked in an office," he explains. "After that I became increasingly lazy." What bothered him most was the fact that, despite his education, he had hardly any money to buy a piece of bread at the end of the month. At some point he lost his motivation: "I had less and less money and I didn't want to earn any more either."

Finally, he decided to become homeless to break the social corset of obligations. "I had to decide how to move on with my life." His earth hut is chaotic, yet furnished with love: Hundreds of books, colourful drawings, portraits of Russian writers, statues of Greek philosophers, oriental carpets, incense sticks, ceramic cups with tobacco remains and a bell with which he calls his rabbit into the hut at late evening. Although at first glance Juri lives like a hermit, he is anything but isolated from society. Stickers with the inscription "Nawalny 2018" are everywhere. For Yuri, the Russian opposition politician Alexei Nawalny is the only man who can stand up against Putin and win the support of the people. On his YouTube channel he advises on how demonstrators should behave after an arrest. Yuri deplores the "corruption" and "total censorship" of the state media. When President Vladimir Putin was to be accompanied by an escort on the M8, several police officers had visited Yuri. They called on him to remove the large Nawalny lettering facing the highway. "Even to catch bandits, fewer armed men pass by," Yuri commented sarcastically. The corruption in Russia is also linked to his situation, he believes. He does not understand how it can be that a young person with a good education has to live below the subsistence level. Now he hopes for a political change: "Nawalny is a symbol for change."

Sergey

Sergei (40) lives on an old boat on the banks of the Moskva. He bought it many years ago as a rusty metal barge in Yaroslavl, brought it across the Volga to Moscow and thus fulfilled a childhood dream. Together with his friend Dmitri, he invested the equivalent of around 12,000 euros to get the boat in shape. Today he sits on the sun deck with a relaxed expression on his face, smokes cigarettes and raves about the future. "We want to go to the Crimea on the Black Sea next year. Our plan is to rent a mooring and make round trips. We've put so much into this boat. It would be nice if one day it would pay off," Sergei says with a childlike brightness.

He loves to look deep into the glass: "I can easily drink one or two litres of vodka alone in the evening, no problem at all." For the interview he poses for fun in a captain's cap. Proudly he talks about the banya below deck. In winter it is heated to over 100 degrees and after a short ventilation it is converted into a bedroom. The boat makes a cosy impression: there are two spacious sleeping cabins, fluffy sofas, seating areas, a large kitchen and high windows that flood the interior with light. It is much better on the Moskva than in the noisy city, says Sergei. He loves the fiery red sunsets, the chirping of the locusts and the fresh air while fishing. But Sergey is not only a romantic, but also a patriot. The Russian national flag flutters in the wind at full mast. "Vladimir Vladimirovich is a good guy," he praises the president. Whether in Syria or the Ukraine, Putin is fighting alone against everyone as the only politician who knows exactly what to do. Nevertheless, social cohesion was better in the past. "The bright years of communism," he recalls. "I say this because my childhood was very vibrant. The pioneer camps, for example. Today, children just sit in front of computers." But he could not bring back the past: "We live the way we live. And I believe that Vladimir and I are doing well on the boat. 

Tanja

Tanja (34) lives in a five-storey prefabricated building from the Khrushchev era, which is to be demolished in two to three years. The young woman with short haircut and green strands of hair dreams of a life in Europe. "There are human rights, a strong economy, social guarantees and tolerance. In Russia everything goes in the opposite direction," she says with an open-hearted smile. A light brown house cat fluffs itself on the bed and Tanja drives through its fur. "I know many people who have a strong hatred. Hatred of gays, lesbians, transgender and LGBT in general. The more open you are, the worse the reaction of the outside world." Tanja compares her apartment to a wall cupboard because of its compact size. The furniture looks clean and cosy at the same time. But although she has to share 28 square metres with her partner, she feels comfortable.

She works as a copywriter for an advertising agency and makes a good living. "Russian middle class," she adds. Although the Russians are better off economically than in the 1990s, social developments are giving her a stomachache. This is not only due to the burgeoning religiousness but also to the media. "The average consumer watches television, that is, state propaganda," she explains. She also takes a critical view of the large-scale demolition program of the city of Moscow. Although she is in favour of renovating dilapidated buildings, politics is failing in communication. She does not believe that the owners of the affected apartments will receive an adequate replacement. "Probably in the worst place in the worst district," she comments sarcastically. An activist from her circle of acquaintances, who had organised petitions against the demolition programme, was stabbed to death one night on his way home. The background to the incident is still unclear, but she does not want to rule out a connection to cold-blooded developers. In the beginning, Tanja herself took part in WhatsApp discussions with neighbours, but she was banned there because of her liberal views. "The demolition program is for rednecks who want more square meters," she complains. Tanja paints a bleak picture for the future of the country: "We are slowly turning into a second North Korea." When we leave her front door, she jokingly says: "Hopefully FSB won't knock on my door after this interview."

Andrej

Andrej (43) lives in an enigmatic house that was built in 1917 shortly before the October Revolution. The entrance door to the artist's apartment is always open. When we enter in the afternoon, he is still lying on the lower floor of his loft bed. "We just woke up," he says. He is sitting on the edge of the bed with his upper body naked and smoking a cigarette. Tribal tattoos and ink stains adorn his muscular arms. In one ear there is a gold ring. Behind the black rimmed horn-rimmed glasses, eyes wander restlessly through the room. He takes a can of condensed milk from the round wooden table and eats it with a spoon. "We've been waiting for you," says another man, sitting on a chair and spinning a joint. He comes from Odessa, has almost no teeth and smiles friendly. Psychedelic trance music sounds from his mobile phone. Anyone who joins Andrei travels into a world of magic. There are all kinds of fascinating and disturbing things to discover: Scary installations with gas masks, religious symbols, drawings of fantasy creatures with erect penises, figures inspired by socialist realism, splashes of paint on the walls, plasticine on the doors, a dusty piano, an antique oak cabinet, records, books, cigarette butts and notepads with macabre poems. Here Andrej lives and works, somewhere between genius and madness.

The house, which was never finished, should have been demolished and rebuilt in the 1990s. However, the building is a listed building: the Russian painter Yevgeny Lansere, a member of the famous Mir Iskustvah artists' association, had a studio there from 1934 to 1946. "I am very glad that this didn't happen," says Andrei. He is convinced that contemporary industry would have produced a similar monstrosity from it as the 17-meter monument in honor of Grand Duke Vladimir I near the Lenin Library. "The house would have been hideous." The building is located in the center of Moscow. The "Lubyanka" metro station, the site of the former KGB headquarters, is only a few minutes' walk away. Although the house looks neglected, the area is fashionable. Through Andrei, young designers and students live in artist collectives. The rent for an apartment with seven rooms is 140,000 rubles - around 2,000 euros. According to a legend, the Beatles gave a secret concert for Leonid Brezhnev in the basement in the 1960s. Today, the basement looks more like a chamber of horrors, where the transition between construction site and art exhibition is fluid: a plush teddy bear torn to pieces, wooden boxes lit by blue neon light, rubble and debris on the floor, and tattered wallpaper. Hectically, Andrej leads us into a room in which he wants to present a work of art. We sit on a sofa while a spotlight turns 360 degrees and shines into the darkness. Vaguely recognizable are various materials and geometric shapes, while a crackling audio recording resounds from loudspeakers. The smell of cannabis wafts through the vault. Andrei is happy and hopes to live in the house for a long time to come. "It's as if an old childhood dream is coming true here."

Anna and Artemi

Anna (23) and Artemi (33) live in one of the "Seven Sisters" in Moscow, which were built by order of Stalin. The confectioner-style high-rise complex, built between 1948 and 1954, is located on Kudrinskaya Square opposite Barrikadnaya Metro station. "These seven skyscrapers have become a symbol of the city, if not of the country," says Anna and laughs. "This was a demonstration of power in the post-war period." She has a narrow face, wears casual make-up and lipstick that matches her red evening dress. Her wrist is adorned with a gold wristwatch. Anna works for a renowned state choir. "The house is in a very comfortable place, right in the centre of town." On the round table there is a vase with a tasteful bouquet of flowers in autumn colours. She shares the two-room apartment with her friend Artemi, the CEO of a well-known marketing company. He has short hair, a goatee beard and wears a shirt, blue socks and orange pants. "It's only a ten-minute walk to the Kremlin," he says. For him, the place is ideal for business meetings. "He cannot live without his work," jokes Anna. She serves chocolate and tea on a fine porcelain service. Books, oil paintings and an icon stand on a wooden piano. The style of the apartment seems to be out of time - a touch of Biedermeier in the remains of the Soviet Union. "This is a good location because it is a historic building," says Anna. "The house will always be expensive and remain an effective investment." There are even parking spaces in front of the house, which are normally highly competitive in the city centre. This is one of the advantages compared to the houses that are located directly at the Kremlin. "A property within the Moscow Garden Ring is a hopeless investment. They usually have a wooden roof and can easily be set on fire." Anna and Artemi are happy not to live in a prefabricated building.

The houses are known as "Khrushchovka" they call "slums". They are among the privileged Russians who consider themselves cosmopolitans. They do not want to recognize an economic crisis in Russia. "For example, many Italians are currently moving to Russia because it's very difficult to find a job with them." Of course, there are different situations in Russia, she explains, "Some live well, some live badly. That's the way it is and will always be, in any country." Of course, a person can complain about how bad the situation is, Artemi adds. "But then it's an unprofessional person who can't do anything." Anna and Artemi love to travel the world. They think it's unfortunate when a person doesn't get the chance. "Yes, it's a sad sight," Artemi says. "We see ourselves as people who are not bound to one place. Today we are in Portugal, tomorrow in Moscow and the day after in New York." In the long run, both could imagine living on an island. "We're a bit sad about the weather," Anna says. It's not only a problem for foreigners, but also for locals. We're cold too..." - "We lack the sun," Artemi adds. Both think that the image of the conservative Russian who does not want to travel abroad is a misconception. "In our social circle, there are no people who have never been abroad," Anna reports. According to her, there are also many people in Italy or the USA who do not want to go abroad. "Of course there are farmers in every country who do not want to travel," says Artemi. In Russia, both feel comfortable - despite the economic crisis and sanctions. The Russian food embargo is not a problem, says Anna. "They have taken the French cheese from us. But in return, we have learned to produce our own cheese like Camembert or Mascarpone." She takes fresh cheese out of the fridge and gives it to the taster. Where the young businessmen will go in the future remains uncertain. "We could stay here, or we could go away. We are open to everything," says Anna.

Uljana

Uljana (44) lives in a house that was built in 1951 at the end of the Stalin era. Her one-room apartment is bright and friendly. Although the house is not from the Khrushchev era, it was subsequently included in the Moscow city demolition program. But Ulyana and her husband are strictly against the demolition. "We don't want to move out, we're doing very well here," she explains. They bought the apartment in November 2015 for five million rubles - at the exchange rate at the time about 71,500 euros. "The city administration promised us at the time that the house would definitely not be demolished," says Uljana. It was only after a vote by the residents a few weeks ago that the house was subsequently included in the demolition program. Uljana and her husband are convinced that the vote was taken by unfair means. "There is a woman in the administration who apparently has a financial interest in the program," she explains. "She rang all the grandmothers in the house and actively persuaded them to vote for the demolition." Ulyana's apartment is very comfortable.

Since her husband is a music teacher, acoustic and electric guitars decorate the walls. Unplastered brickwork gives the room a warm atmosphere. A light wooden floor, seat cushions, a high ceiling and sliding doors radiate a pleasant lightness. "We chose this apartment and no other," says Uljana. The woman from Krasnodar in southern Russia has black hair, dark skin and a smart face. Annoyed, she talks about the city's opaque communication. "We have no idea where they are moving us." The property could be of interest to developers. It's just a five-minute walk to the metro, 15 minutes to the city centre and there are lush parks. In general, Ulyana likes the demolition of the dilapidated five-story prefabricated buildings known as "Khrushchovka". But she does not understand what her "Stalinka" has to do with it. "I guess the floor of an old woman's house is broken. That's no reason to demolish the whole house. Let's help the old woman," she explains militantly. Now Uljana wants to organize a class action suit together with her neighbours and take it to court. Whether the action will be successful remains uncertain - but her hope has not been dashed.