Curator Discussion: The Festival as Part of the Cultural Process

The discussion features Santa Remere (New Theatre Institute of Latvia, curator of the international contemporary theatre festival Homo Novus), Gundega Laiviņa (long-time curator of the Homo Novus festival), Reinis Suhanovs (artistic director of the Valmiera Summer Theatre Festival), Armands Siliņš-Bergmanis (organiser of the alternative chamber-music festival Sansusī), Marta Keil (Polish curator, dramaturg and researcher), and Priit Raud (curator of Estonia’s theatre festival Baltoscandal).

The discussion was translated from English by Lauma Mellēna-Bartkeviča, originally published on Kroders.lv.

Santa: How would you describe the origins of the festivals you’re involved with? What inspired their creation?

Reinis: For me, it’s a very easy answer, because the city council wanted to have some kind of cultural event during the summer period in Valmiera. The only state cultural institution in Valmiera is the Valmiera Theatre, and during the summer period, they are on vacation. So, the council asked whether it would be possible to organize some kind of festival. We thought a lot about what kind of festival we would be interested in. And of course, if it’s summer and the theatre is on vacation, it means we can’t use the human resources of Valmiera Theatre. That’s why we decided to create a residency-type festival. We invite artists to come to Valmiera, live there for a month, and produce theatre performances. So, we have one month with the artists – and then one weekend together with the artists and the audience. That’s the short version.

Gundega: I worked for Homo Novus for around 15 years, but for the last five years, I haven’t been in the festival world. I never said it out loud, but I do miss it now and then. I miss thinking about a festival as an ecosystem, an event, a gathering. Thinking about impulses, I can only try to speak in the name of the people who started Homo Novus, and I guess the reason was quite similar to Baltoscandal. There was this absolutely incredible festival called Life in Vilnius – it was an incredible celebration of aesthetic and creative freedom right after the Iron Curtain fell, in the late ’80s and early ’90s.

As for Homo Novus, it began in Daugavpils in 1995, which is the second-largest city in Latvia, near the Russian border. There was a theatre building there, and inside it – a theatre student course run by Pēteris Krilovs at that time. They just felt trapped in that place. As Pēteris has often said, there was a feeling that the air – and the whole education system – was completely stuck. They had to do something, because it was this major transition from one way of thinking to another. So, they started the festival as an extracurricular activity for students. The idea was to bring together students from the region and figure out what they were doing and who their soulmates were. It started as a kind of school, I would say, but then it quickly moved to the capital and became a more conventional festival format.

Armands: “Sansusī” can be described as music in the forest. One of the main reasons was my father. That’s the physical reason why the festival happens at Susēja, Aknīste, Sēlija. And another reason was my personal wish to release some artistic energy. I’m an opera singer, and at that time, I didn’t sing that much, so I had quite a lot of free time. I started thinking about what kind of festival I would like to create. It was very logical for me, just because of my personality. I’m a classically trained artist, but I also played in a small rock band and went to many small rock festivals in Latvia. So, when we started thinking about the festival, it was logical to combine those two worlds. That was my biggest dream: to make a classical music festival that feels like a small rock festival. People would come for three days, sleep in tents, listen to chamber music in the forest or meadows. Now, I see many similar things happening, but 12 years ago, nobody was doing it that way.

 

Santa: Marta, as a researcher, maybe you can give a more general answer – like, why do international festivals appear? Are there different types or reasons? Or do you maybe have your own structure for how you categorize them?

Marta: That’s a big question. Maybe I can start from a personal experience, because actually, the history of the festival I used to be involved in is quite similar. It was established in 1995, so it also has its 30th anniversary this year in Lublin.

Basically, it was founded exactly at the moment of transition – from one system to another, from one way of thinking about theatre to another. It was created by people who were co-shaping the independent scene in Lublin. And I think this was a common phenomenon, especially on the so-called eastern side of Europe – trying to find a way to give space, to gather, and to rethink: where are we, how do we make art, and what kind of society are we living in during this transitional moment? That was a time when festivals, especially with international programmes, became a way to brainstorm collectively through artistic practices – and to ask: Who are we? Where do we want to go? What is this turbo neoliberal capitalism going to do to us – or not?

But then festivals, like the one in Lublin, also became part of that neoliberal game – with bigger budgets, famous artists coming just for a few days, and a focus on well-promoted events. This “festivalization of culture” that started in the mid-’90s and early 2000s quickly became something many of us wanted to challenge – to rethink what a festival could actually do instead of playing along this neoliberal game. For us – for me and my co-curator Grzegorz Reszke – that was the main question. We wanted to hijack the festival framework and use its resources to do something that was lacking in the local performing arts ecosystem: to support independent artists who didn’t fit into the state-funded repertory theatre system and had no structural support – or visibility.

We tried to imagine what a festival as a public art institution could be – something different from the traditional model of theatres with full-time ensembles and fixed repertoires, but still following the duties of public entity. We wanted to propose an alternative. And I guess that was partly why we had to stop after five years. We weren’t delivering enough “promotable events,” as we were told. We invited artists to spend time with us – not just to come and present their work. Like Reinis, we offered residencies before the festival with audience even began.

We actually had an access to great infrastructure – Centre for Culture in Lublin, with its beautiful residency spaces and studios. Once, an artist said in an interview that our festival was like SPA – an intellectual, emotional SPA where they could spend some time. And that comment was later used against us by the festival’s founders: “The artists are not here to have a nice time – they’re here to deliver!” For me, that was a perfect example of the dominant narrative about what a festival should be – and how it can be challenged. And I see that same kind of thinking here, at this festival – how you also “hijack” the festival structure and turn it into something else, a long term commitment.

I think that’s what’s so exciting – festivals that actually turn the format inside out. Like SAAL Biennaal, where you’ve opened curation to the whole team – many talk about this, but few actually do it. That’s why I’m so interested in following these traces and ask: what else could happen?

Priit: In Estonia, it’s very clear that all festivals are organized by existing institutions. The festival itself is not an institution – which is very different from here, for example. So, the more research-based work happens during the season, not during the festival. The festival is more like a highlight – a way to attract attention.

For example, we started SAAL Biennaal basically because it was the only way to get money to bring artists from abroad – not only from our government, but also from places like the Goethe-Institut. That was the only possibility.

And we all understand it’s much easier to talk to politicians about a festival than about an independent venue doing research or residencies. They’re like, “What? Research? What are you researching?”

Gundega: “Get serious! Bring serious directors!”

Marta: “Yeah, deliver!” (laughs)

Priit: Exactly. So in that sense, it was much easier to say, “We’re doing a festival.” Politicians understand that – they can show up for the opening. Not anymore, but at the beginning they did. Now, that kind of culture isn’t sexy anymore.

For me, that’s a key difference between Estonia and many other countries. Here, festivals are run by institutions that already work year-round – so they don’t always have time to focus fully on the festival, or only one or two people do.

Marta: So how did you make it happen that now half of the Kanuti Gildi Saal team – or the whole team – is curating?

Priit: The whole team is curating, but basically two people are dealing with it full-time for at least a year.

Marta: So they lead the process, right?

Priit: Yes. Baltoscandal works the same way. I’m hired to curate Baltoscandal by the state theatre.

Gundega: So it’s like you, Reinis – you’re hired by the Valmiera Theatre to do the festival.

Reinis: Yes, but at the same time, we work as an independent team.

Priit: I think it’s the same for us. I’m hired, and one other person is hired for the festival.

Gundega: Yes, but they don’t control anything.

Santa: Armands, are you hired by “Sansusī”?

Armands: You mean – hired by myself? (laughs) Of course, we have some paid positions, but it’s never enough. We still think of ourselves as volunteers – we only have money, when we have money.

Santa: Do you have a position in the budget as curator?

Armands: Yes, we include a small amount for the artistic director in some event budgets.

Santa: I met people from The Kiosk festival in Slovakia – they said it was the first time in eight years that they had salaries. And that was just a year ago. It’s not the ’90s anymore.

Armands: Yes, I can relate. Maybe in the last two years, we finally started to include our salaries in the budget – because they should be there. Usually, at the end of the festival, like everywhere, we count the losses, the minuses. Before, the team was always the last in line – we only got paid if something was left.

Now at least we make sure there’s a small amount, even if it’s just 200–300 euros. It’s not much, but it’s something. Otherwise, most of the work is still done voluntarily.

Gundega: I just wanted to comment on what you said about Kiosk, and about this region – the so-called Eastern Europe, which we should probably redefine at some point. This is a territory with very different historical circumstances from the rest of Europe. And when we look at the festival world, there’s a huge difference in how festivals are approached.

In Western Europe, especially in the big festivals that started in the 1940s after the war, the curator’s role is incredibly prestigious – with huge salaries, lots of travel, and real influence, sometimes for better, sometimes not.

But in Eastern Europe, even after 30 years, it’s still often about mission – about belief. We do this not because it’s prestigious or about us personally. There’s a different foundation, a kind of spirit we still carry from the 1990s. It’s beautiful – but it can’t last forever. It’s not sustainable in today’s world. And yet, I’m so happy to see that even in newer festivals like the ones you, Armands and Reinis, are creating, that idealism is still there – doing it not for prestige, not for ourselves.

Santa: In the show “The Making of Pinocchio,” the artistic director is portrayed as a dominatrix in a red latex costume. And in every festival, this character is named after the local artistic director of that festival.

I was translating the subtitles – because we don’t have the budget to hire a translator – and I got to this scene where I had to write my own name. And I suddenly felt I had to explain to the artistic team that the joke might not quite work here, because the artistic director in our case isn’t exactly a power figure. Then we started wondering: which letter in BDSM would actually represent a curator?

But I wanted to ask you, Gundega – how was the New Theatre Institute of Latvia created? And is it even an institution?

Gundega: I mean, it depends on what we mean by “institution.” I think a festival is an institution. But again, how do we define that word? I think we should look at the idea of an institution with more freedom. An institution isn’t necessarily a building or a structure that receives public funding – there’s much more diversity within that concept.

The Institute began because there was such a strong desire to do more than just a festival. The festival has always been the central reference point, but gradually it branched out into various processes that required attention and care every day.

There was so much to be done at that time, because nothing existed yet. You had to build an entirely new cultural policy, to redefine how we even talk about contemporary theatre forms. And the Institute was full of young people who were super eager to do all that. So it was established as a legal body – a structure that made all those activities possible.

And it just kept growing and growing… until we almost swallowed ourselves. We were sinking under the weight of everything we were doing. We created Homo Alibi, which at one point grew just as big as Homo Novus. People were asking, “Why do you have two festivals with the same name?” There was this incredible thirst – or maybe even greed – to do more and more. Hopefully in a good way. So that’s the Institute. But I think your case is similar, Reinis.

Reinis: Yes, I wanted to continue. It turned out that the Valmiera Summer Theatre festival is really important for the audience. We’re only 10 years old, but we’ve already become important for the local community. And that’s our main audience – not only the spectators, but also local businesses. They now want to support us, or they invite us to collaborate with them. They enjoy culture and theatre – they go to theatre in winter, and in summer they love that the theatre is happening right there in their town. That’s one thing.

And of course, it was a great joy to bring artists together to create site-specific performances – using knowledge and experience we gained from Homo Novus and other places. But at one point, we realized that we wanted to make theatre for children. One of our directors, Jānis Znotiņš, focuses a lot on children’s theatre, and we understood that if we wanted to build a whole programme around this kind of work, we had to ask big questions about quality. After the first year, we started an educational programme – exploring how to make theatre for children and what you need to know. Not just artistic ideas, but also pedagogical understanding.

About 10 years ago, there was still this common belief that if you were a bad theatre director, you did theatre for children; and if you were a bad actor in a drama theatre, you went to the puppet theatre. From today’s perspective, that’s mind-blowing – but that’s how it was back then. The Kids and Youth Theatre Institute became a way to bring more prestige to children’s and youth theatre. We decided that every second edition of the festival would focus on this kind of work.

And then we focused the programme – one year, the festival was dedicated entirely to this kind of theatre. And over the years, it became clear that children’s and youth theatre is actually great – and I wanted to do more of it. But we also realized we needed to learn – to understand how differently you have to think when creating something for a 7-year-old, for example.

Santa: So the festival is also an educational and experimental platform, in a way.

Reinis: Yes, exactly. And through the Institute, we also saw an opportunity to build an international network. Because for a festival, it’s important to have international connections. But none of us were really interested in just bringing in ready-made site-specific shows. When you present work in the countryside, the attitude is often like, “Oh, if it’s a Latvian show, I’ll go see it. But if it’s… say, Slovenian – hmm, I’m not sure what that will be.”

But with children’s and youth theatre, we quickly realized it’s different. For example, in Estonia there’s ZUGA, a theatre company that focuses on work with children, and in there is Hanna Bylka-Kanecka from the Holobiont Collective in Poland, artist who is creating participatory performances with active audience involvement. There was a great opportunity to bring specialists from abroad to collaborate with our artists – to create new pieces together, with new ways of thinking. And that’s what started happening.

Santa: How would you describe the proportion of international work in Valmiera’s festival?

Reinis: It varies, but we try to keep it around 20–30% international collaborations.

Santa: That’s something that puzzles me – we put so much effort into bringing international performances, and it’s getting more and more expensive. Yet local Latvian shows sell out immediately, while for international ones people are hesitant. I suppose when the festival first started, it was the opposite – people were eager to see international work because it was something rare. Now it feels like the pendulum has swung all the way to the other extreme.

Gundega: But it’s still lacking. You can’t really say there’s a lot of international work.

Santa: That’s exactly my question – what’s happening? Maybe Armands has some answers.

Armands: I believe it’s a question of how we advertise things. Because mostly, people don’t buy tickets for things they don’t know. In our case, the best approach has been to sell the festival itself, not the individual artists or performances. We sell the feeling of the festival – the atmosphere they will experience there. And I think that’s been, let’s say, our success story.

If we try to promote specific artists, it’s much harder. For example, we once brought an opera singer – a rising star in Europe – and even rented the Opera hall for her performance. But later, when I spoke with Sandis Voldiņš, who’s now the director of the Latvian National Opera and Ballet, he pointed out that it’s really about the audience. Because the Opera House audience is not our audience. Our audience comes for the feeling of the festival, not for particular stars.

Reinis: We do the same – we sell the atmosphere and the name of the Valmiera Summer Theatre Festival. Our audience first thinks, “Oh, we’re going to Valmiera Summer Theatre Festival!” and then they decide which shows they’ll see.

Santa: That makes sense – it’s also a feature of smaller places, away from the capital. Like in Optižūns – there’s nothing else happening in that forest, so you see all the shows. But in Riga, the festival coincides with the start of the theatre season. People can’t make it to everything, because so much is happening at the same time. We’ve started to wonder if maybe September isn’t actually the best time for the festival.

Priit: Yes, in a big city, it’s very hard to sell tickets. And why? Because the theatres are running their regular programmes at the same time. People have options – they’re going to other shows. We also sell the Baltoscandal festival, but the problem there is that it only lasts four days. So the maximum number of festival passes we can sell equals the capacity of our smallest venue – often just 30 people. And that’s it. We sell passes without giving out any information about the programme – only the dates – and they sell out right away. But since it’s only 20 or 30 passes, it doesn’t really help much. In a smaller place like Rakvere – similar to Valmiera – that model can work. But in Tallinn, it’s not possible, because there’s always something else happening. You can’t really claim that what you’re doing is somehow better than the event next door.

Marta: Maybe I could add two things here. One is what you already said – that we tend to listen to the songs we already know. But I think there’s also a bigger phenomenon at play, a social and political one – this tendency to return to our own field, to what we know, to where we feel more or less comfortable, trusting the names we already recognize.

It’s a big word to use, but if you imagine a whole spectrum of national – or however we might call them – tendencies, then this is somewhere within that spectrum. It’s a consequence of the social tendency to withdraw into closest communities or internet bubbles. For example, in Poland between 2015 and 2023, when we had the extremely right-wing government, one of the main changes – besides replacing many leaders of the artistic institutions – was that the international programmes of festivals began to shrink.

There were years when those programmes disappeared almost completely. Konfrontacje, which we used to run as an international festival, has been mostly national for the last years. And it’s not even that the government directly decided that. It happened before any official decision or public statement – as if there was just this feeling: “We’d better withdraw before a problem arises.” I find that quite dangerous. Maybe the phenomenon isn’t so visible or tangible everywhere, but I think similar tendencies can be found in quite many places.

Reinis: I just want to add something. When local artists create something for a festival, it’s unique. It might only be performed three or four times. And the community interested in theatre or culture – however small it is in Riga – will say, “Oh, it’s a unique event, they’ll only play it a few times, we have to see it.” But with the international programme, it’s different. Some of those shows, we’ve already seen. For example, Fun Fact – I saw it a year ago at a showcase in Tallinn. Those of us who are really into theatre can travel and see those performances in their original context. So it’s not only about the names – it’s also about the experience of seeing international theatre abroad.

Gundega: I think this brings us to something we haven’t really touched upon yet. When we look at all these things separately, we also have to ask: what else is a festival? For me, that’s the most interesting question. What kind of animal is it? What else can it do without putting together a good program? What’s its dramaturgy? What kind of conversation does it create? How do we work with space? I think that’s another layer that’s just as important as the artistic choices – which artist, which performance. And I feel that in Latvia, this conversation is only just beginning. We’ve never really talked about what a festival is, what it could be, what its potential is. Are we using it? Are we creating it? It’s such an interesting question.

Marta: There’s something I’d like to jump in on here – also building on what has already been said today – about how we think about a festival. I think you mentioned this too, Gundega, and it was partly in your question, Santa: how can we think about the festival as an institution? I guess we can say that a festival is an institution, because of what it does to the field: it establishes artistic hierarchies, sets up a context for artistic practices, offer conditions for the audiences to gather; it builds, maintains, enriches, or expands social relations. It also takes place within a social context, and therefore also impacts how that context functions. Of course, it also offers visibility to some artists while not offering it to others – so in that sense, it’s also a process of instituting the field itself.

But I want to return to a conversation that took place at the Santarcangelo Festival, initiated by Silvia Bottiroli, a curator and dramaturg based in Bologna. It was published in a booklet in 2015, during her final edition of the festival. There was a beautiful, speculative dialogue between her and four other curators, where they proposed imagining festivals as thinking entities. If making art is a form of thinking, then curating a festival can also be seen as a form of thinking. In that sense, festivals can have their own way of thinking – they can propose their own forms of imagination. And maybe, as an audience member or as a curator, one can also try to think with them.

Drawing inspiration from that, and looking at where we are now – especially with festivals that are turning 30, for example – I wonder: what if we think of festivals not only as thinking entities, but also as bodies? Bodies that live within a specific ecosystem, that are situated in it, and that form relationships with many human and non-human partners.

Gundega: The privilege of not having fixed roles…

Marta: Exactly – and yet, they might also have those. The festival, as both an institution and a body, could have a kind of skin – maybe not the façade of a building, but a more porous skin. How does that skin breathe, for example?

Or, thinking about the body again – it needs nourishment, it needs nutrients from somewhere. Where does it get them? And what happens if that body – being 30, or 10, or even just 2 years old – gets tired? What can we do then? Is the festival only there to take care of and hold space for artists and audiences? Or can it also be held in return? That would be my question – can we somehow create conditions where the festival itself is also cared for?

Santa: But sometimes festival has started as someone’s or some group’s personal, precious initiative – after 30 years, it’s no longer theirs, and we don’t even really know how it began. We’ve been part of it at different moments, part of a meaningful process, but never leading it. Now it has grown into something big – a system, an organism, this complex, European project-connected monster with a vibe – and we’re just trying to grasp what it really is and how we can still be part of it while helping it continue.

Marta: But now it’s maybe your precious thing?

Reinis: I have a reflection here. We just celebrated 10 years, and I’ve been the program director for all of them. We started super small, and now, for the first time, we even closed the main street for a weekend. It was a huge thing – and a bit of a headache – because there was a concert by a popular Latvian band at the same time. The street was closed, traffic was crazy, but people loved it. The audience enjoyed it, and the theatre artists enjoyed it too.

But I keep asking myself: okay, we’ve been doing it this way for 10 years – what happens next? How can we do it differently? It took me all these years to really feel that the festival has become something, that it has its own identity.

Right now, we focus on two main things: giving space to young artists, and to those who can’t find a place in institutional theatres. Just three years ago, there were almost no young stage directors on the main stages – the youngest (Elmārs Seņkovs) in the repertory theatre was in his early 40s. So, for us, it’s important to offer that opportunity. But at the same time, we don’t want to be seen only as a “beginners festival”.

We’ve built an identity and an atmosphere – when you go to the Valmiera Summer Theatre Festival, you know what kind of experience you’ll have. And if you’re an artist working there, you know you’ll be working with space, with the city, with its people, with the landscape – that’s the kind of theatre we make. Of course, the budget is small – like for everyone in culture. But I actually like that we can spend our few thousand euros directly on artists. They make the most of what they have. For example, we had a “tractor opera”: real tractors came in, they dug a hole, that was the stage, the artists performed, they filled it back in, and it was over. The tractors went back to the construction company – and that was it. But everyone got the emotion, the creative spirit.

Of course, sometimes you need bigger productions, because you also want a larger audience. Right now, we’re holding the festival one or two weeks after the city festival. The city festival has everything for free – big pop bands and everything. And people easily spend their 23 euros for a portion of shashlik, potatoes, beer. Our tickets cost around 16 euros, or 8 for professionals, with discounts and social promotions. But it’s never like 23 euros, and it’s about spending that money on art and on your emotional experience.

Santa: I realized it’s actually a burden when critics start writing good things about you. When you still have to convince people, that struggle gives you energy. But once they start flattering you, you begin to wonder – are we doing something wrong?

Reinis: A quick response – at first, our idea was to hold the festival once every two years. We did the first edition, but had to cancel one show, another turned out a bit shaky, and so on. In the end, we had six events planned, but only four actually happened – and maybe two were more or less okay. As a curator, I ended up not only in financial trouble but also with some distrust from the community. Everyone was asking, what is this Valmiera Theatre Festival? The critics and even the city council said, it’s a bit shady. So, in two nights we came up with a new concept – to do a children’s theatre festival the next year. Something smaller-scale, with seats for about 100 people, no need for loudspeakers, just focused work. And we did it very quickly.

Gundega: But that’s exactly how festivals emerge. What you did was identify a real need – something that only a festival could respond to. There’s no cultural policy that cares about future audiences, only about star directors. You filled that empty space. And because of that, you also began discovering more gaps – like the lack of education – and then you created the Institute. So, good luck, and see you in 30 years!

Santa: To wrap up – thinking of Homo Novus or your own festivals, have you seen them bring real change? Something that clearly shifted from before to after?

Priit: We’re not that important – we’re not changing the world.

Marta: But I think quite a lot of other festivals and organizations are looking at you. That might be where the change begins.

Priit: Maybe. We’re more like – let’s see how it goes. This was our second time curating it collectively. The festival always includes theoretical discussions about collective curating – we’re learning as we go, far from teaching anyone how it should be done. But we’ve decided to continue this way, at least until next time. It’s been a change for many of us – including myself. I used to be very skeptical. I come from a generation that believes someone has to be in charge. Maybe the festival hasn’t changed that much, but I have, and it’s been fascinating to observe. There’s no ready-made knowledge about how to do this – we have to figure it out ourselves.

Marta: And could you say, what has changed in you – in how you think about your role?

Priit: We started that process already at Kanuti Gildi SAAL. I stepped down as artistic director, and three of my colleagues took over. That was already a step toward collectivity. And I think the three of them have bigger challenges than we do with ten people. With three, you still ask, who’s in charge? But with ten, that question almost disappears.

Gundega: I think Homo Novus, through the years, has shown the courage to create differently, to experience differently, to be together differently. It doesn’t necessarily mean we’ve set a new status quo in the field, but I think we’ve spread a message – be more free, less serious, but at the same time be very, very serious about the art you’re making. I don’t know… Reinis, you’ve worked with us and also without us…

Reinis: I’d say that for me, Homo Novus really changed how I think – not only as an artist but also how I organize a festival. I did a piece with my three colleagues at Homo Alibi, and as Gundega said, it started like this: “Listen, guys, we have 5,000 euros – very little money – here’s an empty space, and in a month and a half, there has to be a performance.” So we built everything ourselves – the exhibition, the installation, the stage, the seating, the sound, the lights. We created it all with our own hands. And I really loved that experience. That’s also how we work in Valmiera: we have a small budget, open-minded artists, and no technical team or directors – all the work is done by the team. It gives a huge sense of responsibility to the artists.

Gundega: I’ll just add – it’s not always like “here’s the money, see you in a month.” Your case was special – your quartet (Reinis Suhanovs, Jēkabs Nīmanis, Jānis Znotiņš, Rūdolfs Bekičs) wanted to build the ideal stage. There was no place for me as a dramaturg or curator – they wanted to build their own world with their own hands.

Reinis: Exactly, and that’s why it was such an important experience for me. I wanted to create that kind of space for other artists too. It’s not always pleasant, especially when you work in state theatres, where there are stage workers, managers, and artistic directors telling you what to change. I wanted to make a space where artists can take full responsibility and freedom.

Santa: This year, in the “Pārbūves / Reconstructions” project the young scenography students also built their own spaces – with just 5,000 euros. But they created something truly meaningful for themselves. There was a strong desire to make things happen. They did it simply, but with real purpose. For us, it was like fuel for the team – to see people who genuinely want to do things, instead of running into the closed doors of reluctant venues. With the students, it was more like: “Yes, I’ll take the challenge. I’ll clean the space, put my name on it, and make it mine.”

Reinis: This is where I have to say thank you – for giving the students that opportunity. That experience will have a real impact after the festival, the moment they realize, “We can do something with our own spirit.”

And regarding the Valmiera Festival – we’ve shown how to think differently and how to transform a space quickly in theatre. For example, we once worked in an old boiler house and turned it into a theatre venue. Later, when the Valmiera Theatre was under reconstruction and ran into problems, with that we managed to open a regular theatre in that boiler house in just two months.

Gundega: The same thing happened in Tabakas Fabrika – these guys built their ideal stage there, and then Alvis Hermanis came to see what was going on and said, “Yes, we’ll have the New Riga Theatre space here.”

Reinis: As a festival, you simply give people the possibility to look at things with different eyes.

 

Photo: Andrejs Strokins