The Architectural Legacy of Communism in Central Asia
Originally published 29/11/19 at https://uclpimedia.com/online/the-architectural-legacy-of-communism-in-central-asia
With legacies and memories of Soviet culture fading into the past, Western contemporary architecture has begun to take precedence over the authoritarian urban planning we typically associate with the Iron Curtain. Indeed, as Moscow’s shiny, glass-clad financial district stands tall over the boundless Khrushchyovka apartment blocks of the post-war era, and Kyiv rebrands its urban housing under the guise of developments like Comfort Town for the burgeoning middle classes, the question of architectural preservation becomes increasingly prominent. Central Asia, though, has not borne the fruits of Western cultural and economic investment to such an extent. Built upon Islamic foundations, they occupy an awkward cultural domain somewhere between East and West. Communist architectural landmarks remain relatively untouched, but their existence is threatened. Hollow and dilapidated, certainly — unfashionable, perhaps. Nevertheless, they stand proudly as a de facto celebration of the meticulous regional considerations of Soviet architects and their endeavours.
Surprisingly, in a region geographically dominated by barren steppe and mountains, Soviet modernism has had a profound effect on Central Asia’s rural landscape. Christopher Herwig’s Soviet Bus Stops notes the USSR’s extensive bus network, and how one of the first assignments given to students of architecture was to design a regionally unique — but nevertheless feasible — bus stop. With isolated peasants forming the backbone of the Soviet Islamic Republics, many of these designs were built by the state in an attempt to integrate these communities. The results speak for themselves: in the town of Balykchy, Kyrgyzstan, a bus stop shaped like a traditional Kalpak hat pays tribute to the nations’ nomadic traditions. In Aralsk, Kazakhstan, a shelter reminiscent of a Mosque acts as a lonely indicator of forgotten civilisation. Experimental exercises in Soviet modernism appear in even the most isolated corners. At face value, one may question the significance of bus stops; in the West, they are essentially bastions of mundanity. In Central Asia, however, they take on a completely new form — they are decaying icons of cultural heritage, local connectivity, and bizarre ventures into architectural symbolism.
Whilst rural Central Asia is unexpectedly rich in functional architectural beauty, it is equally scarred by the more sinister relics of the cold war. In 2015, David de Rueda’s photos from inside the Baikonur Cosmodrome provoked fascination; the black and grey masquerade of its hangars are anonymous, yet oddly familiar. At the Polygon Nuclear Test Site in Semipalatinsk, inhuman, triangular structures provoke an undeniable discomfort. These relics, despite their decayed appearance, represent an era of wonder about a world beyond — very fitting, perhaps, given the likeness of the steppe to a foreign, uninhabitable planet. But they also act as a timely reminder of the omnipresence of the Communist state, that the watchful eye of Moscow looms, even where civilisation seemingly ceases. In a landscape where few geographical or regional indicators exist, their origin is immediately recognisable. The beauty of Soviet architecture in Central Asia, then, lies not only in its abstract celebrations of regional custom — but equally in its ubiquity, anonymity, and unapologetically harsh aesthetic.
Increasing tourism to the Eastern Bloc has made the flagrant, self-indulgent principles of Stalinist urban planning more acceptable to the Western eye. Roberto Conte and Stefano Perego’s Soviet Asia provides perhaps the most careful and extensive consideration of urban Soviet Asian architecture to date, demonstrating that when the thin veneer of brutalism is scratched away, we see yet more regional nuances. Nods to Tashkent’s roots as a hub of the Silk Road are visible at every turn. The State Museum showcases a grey cuboid sat atop a raised platform, where concrete becomes fluid thanks to the beautifully intricate patterns carved into its exterior like a monochrome Persian rug. Across the city, the bright blue geometric patterns of the Chorsu Bazaar, rebuilt in the 1980s, illustrates one of the most obvious examples of regional consciousness in Soviet attempts at urbanisation.
Experimental architecture is not just evident in historically significant buildings and hubs, however. Soviet Asia features some of the most prominent examples of more liberal policy with regard to the building of social housing with the dawn of perestroika. The Aul Housing Complex, built in Kazakhstan in 1986, represents a unique marriage of functionality and modernism. Its innumerable curved windows and balconies are elegant and graceful, in complete juxtaposition to its harsh beige exterior. Clearly, a discrepancy exists between Soviet Asia and the rest of the USSR. The expansion of cities like Moscow had been carefully curated and measured in the post-war decades, but the subsequent relaxation of planning guidelines provided an opportunity to push the boundaries of monotony in undeveloped urban centres. Soviet Asia was, figuratively speaking, a blank canvas.
Obviously, these buildings are no longer being constructed. This begs the question — what next? Though many have been repurposed or are still in use, a great number are steadily declining as the legacy of the Soviet Union transcends the gap between memory and history. Given that — with the exception of Kyrgyzstan — all of the former Soviet Asian republics continue to be ruled by dictators, government-led protection and regeneration is unlikely. With Saparmurat Niyazov’s reconfiguration of Ashgabat as a lavish marble theme park, and Nursultan Nazarbayev’s transformation of Astana into a flamboyant monument to both oil and himself, the fate of modernism in Central Asia looks bleak. Not all hope is lost, however: an increasing appreciation for Soviet architecture is growing in Western discourse. Exhibitions like ‘Soviet Modernism, 1955–1991’, held at Vienna’s Architekturzentrum in 2012, are testaments to this — as are the photo books mentioned in this piece. The growing accessibility of the Eastern Bloc is forcing a reconsideration of assumptions that brutalism and the USSR are synonymous. Ultimately, to Westerners, the legacy of architecture in Soviet Central Asia is one of shattered preconceptions, mystique, and political symbolism. But to the people who have created their lives and memories in these buildings, it is very different; it is one of folklore, community, and the struggle to maintain their cultural dignity in a system that demanded uniformity.
